THE PEN DON’T SHAKE [Intro - cello plucks, vinyl crackle] Funny thing about losing everything… You find out what can’t be taken. They can shake the man. But the pen? The pen don’t shake. [Verse 1] I learned to make a sentence from the shit I couldn’t say, Put a period on the people always standing in the way. Had a question mark above me every time my body changed, Now I turn the pain to paragraphs and press it to the page. Every comma came from pauses, every line bears fingerprints. I don’t market being damaged; broken language leaves its prints. I used to measure strength by everything that I could carry, ’til my legs taught me the strongest shit can still get heavy. Now I weigh each word like a scale beneath the sentence; a line ain’t heavy just because you yell the message. I don’t write to make you notice. I write until you recognize what you couldn’t vocalize— then suddenly it’s quoted. I put withdrawals inside the verse, make you fiend to hear the truth. We’ve been overdosed on perfect; I’m imperfect—that’s the proof. Every flaw became a feature. Had to lose the man I was before I finally met the speaker. [Pre-Chorus] Don’t ask where the bars came from. Look around. Every locked door made one. Every scar left ink. Every time life crossed me out… I wrote myself back in. [Chorus] PEN DON’T SHAKE— SAY IT WITH ME: PEN DON’T SHAKE! Hands might tremble, hearts might break. PEN DON’T SHAKE— NO, THE PEN DON’T SHAKE! Take what you want, but you can’t take what I make. Write it down! Bleed it out! Turn the hurt into a name! PEN DON’T SHAKE— I’M STILL HERE! Still standing, still writing, still fearless on the page! [Verse 2] I got skeletons with rhythm, hear ’em dancing when I write. Ghosts inside the margins, throwing shadows at the light. Made a home inside my head, had to renovate the attic. Too much baggage in the rafters, every memory was static. Now I ground the current; even static serves a purpose. Face the fear beneath the surface— watch the surface get nervous. I can make a bar a prison, make a bar the place you listen, make a bar become the standard, then raise it with the next sentence. I don’t punchline just to punch. Every setup hides a bruise; that’s why every punch connects— pain gives power to the truth. I’ve had people leave me hanging, so I learned enjambment. Let the thought run past the line; abandonment taught me endings rarely land where you expect ’em. I’ve been rewriting my life without erasing what happened. That’s revision with a scar— cleaner lines, but still the damage. You can clean up every sentence, but the truth ain’t in the grammar. It’s the tremble in the voice when somebody finally answers: “Yeah… me too.” [Chorus] PEN DON’T SHAKE— SAY IT WITH ME: PEN DON’T SHAKE! Hands might tremble, hearts might break. PEN DON’T SHAKE— NO, THE PEN DON’T SHAKE! Take what you want, but you can’t take what I make. Write it down! Bleed it out! Turn the hurt into a name! PEN DON’T SHAKE— I’M STILL HERE! Still standing, still writing, still fearless on the page! [Verse 3 - drums strip back, technical flow] I keep a cemetery underneath the metaphors. Names I don’t say anymore still knock against the doors. I got chapters I don’t visit, sentences I served, got acquitted by forgiveness, but I still remember words. A sentence can imprison you. A sentence can release you. “I don’t love you.” “I forgive you.” “I believe you.” “I still need you.” Same alphabet. Different arrangement. Twenty-six letters can make a wedding or a war, put a child inside a bedtime story, put a soldier on the floor. They can write a diagnosis, write a last goodbye, write, “There’s nothing else,” or, “We found another try.” Don’t tell me words are nothing. I’ve watched a few of ’em change lives: “I don’t want you.” “I am proud of you.” “I survived.” That’s three. Still weighs more than paragraphs do. The greatest lines ain’t complicated. They’re the words somebody needed but nobody ever gave ’em. [Bridge - solo cello] If you’re listening and something in this sounds familiar… I didn’t steal your story. Pain just has a limited vocabulary. Different houses. Different bodies. Different reasons. Same 3 A.M. Maybe that’s why songs work. For three minutes… nobody hurts alone. [Final Chorus - huge but controlled] PEN DON’T SHAKE— EVERYBODY: PEN DON’T SHAKE! World might tremble, hands might break. PEN DON’T SHAKE— NO, THE PEN DON’T SHAKE! Take the man I was, you can’t take what I make. Every loss! Every scar! Every night I thought I’d fade— WRITE IT DOWN! RISE BACK UP! TURN THE HURT INTO A FLAME! PEN DON’T SHAKE— I’M STILL HERE! I’M STILL HERE— I’M STILL HERE! Through the fire, through the fear, still fearless on the page! PEN DON’T SHAKE— PEN DON’T SHAKE! [Outro - cello only] So… Is my pen impeccable? Nah. It’s better than that. It’s mine. And every fucking word… cost something.
