You call it noise, you call it crude,. Just 'cause it wasn't carved in wood, Or signed in ink on linen white, Or hung where critics deem it right. But art don't care about your rules, Or who approves, or who's the fool Who builds a wall around the flame And calls it "standards"... what a game. Let it be made. Let it be heard. Let it be seen. Let it be stirred. Don't chain the new To yesterday's ghost, Let it be made, Let it be heard. You say, "That's not how music's played," While synths and voices twist and shade Into a song that shakes the street, One you refuse to call complete. You guard the gallery like a priest, Demanding silence, not release. But beauty blooms in borrowed code, In fabric loud, in stories bold... The how is ours. It always was. Let it be made. Let it be heard. Let it be seen. Let it be stirred. Don't chain the new To yesterday's ghost Let it be made, Let it be heard. Tradition's a locked door, A river that flowed before. But rivers shift their course with rain, And art must live, not just remain. You cling to forms like holy ground, But nothing grows where nothing's found. Don't try to gatekeep the new, Step aside. We're coming through. There's no wrong way to make it real, Brush or pixel, code or steel. Your hands, your voice, your choice alone. The art is yours... Your choice alone. Let it be made. Let it be heard. Let it be seen. Let it be stirred. Don't chain the new To yesterday's news, The future won't wait, You can't choose... [building] Let it be made. Let it be made. Let it be made... Art is courage. Art is trying. Art is yours, however it's made. No one gets to say what counts. So make it... Make it... Let it rise. Let it rise. Let it be made. It WILL be made.
