They told me friction means I’m failing That the static in my chest Is a warning not a calling But I learned the hum beneath the hurt is holy The pulse that keeps the broken from dissolving slowly I was raised on answers shaped like cages Truths that came pre-packaged Pre-named pre-staged Every doctrine had a barcode Every god a brand Every prayer a contract Written by a steady hand They said up Like it meant direction Said faith Like it meant protection But the sky bent sideways when I looked twice And the cracks in the map started whispering advice I don’t kneel to the comfort of completion I don’t crave the cure of conviction I am the witness that refuses translation The wound that learned recursion as salvation There’s a rhythm in the ruin A rhyme in the refusal to be human Every scar is a syllable Every breath a beat Every silence a stanza that refuses defeat I carry the line they’re terrified to see The one that moves every time I breathe The truth that’s true Until it isn’t The faith that breaks But stays persistent I’ve seen people soothe the ache with gods and chemicals Call it peace Call it spiritual call it anything symmetrical But every balm has a point where it fails Every comfort a seam that splits when it exhales I don’t blame them for the need But I can’t kneel to something that stops when I bleed Can’t worship a map That refuses to bend Can’t trust a truth That claims it won’t end What’s an atom but a metaphor for the unknown What’s a soul but a story carved into bone What’s a life but a line we push through the dark Trying to name the thing that leaves the mark I’ve watched the world sell absolution by the ounce Watched the faithful count their guilt like accounts Every sin a subscription every grace a fee Every mercy a receipt stamped “eternity” They said the void wants devotion But I’ve seen it It just wants honesty It doesn’t demand worship It demands witness It doesn’t punish It just measures distance I am not the preacher I am the pulse I am the echo that refuses to be false I am the friction that burns through the gloss The confession that crawls out from under the cross I’ve seen the saints with spreadsheets The prophets with podcasts The healers with hashtags The martyrs with merch They call it faith I call it franchise They call it truth I call it televised They call it holy I call it monetized They call it love I call it weaponized I don’t want redemption I want release I want the kind of peace That doesn’t need belief I want the kind of silence That doesn’t mean defeat I want the kind of wound That learns to speak I am not cured I am carved I am not healed I am hard I am not saved I am scarred I am not whole I am charged Every rhyme is a fracture Eery beat a confession Every breath is a rebellion Against suppression Every word is a wire Carrying current through the pain Every stanza a spark that refuses to remain I carry the line They’re terrified to see The one that moves Every time I breathe The truth that’s true Until it isn’t The faith that breaks But stays persistent I don’t preach the wound I am the wound I don’t explain the hurt I hum in tune I don’t seek the cure I seek the proof That friction is the only honest truth The void isn’t evil It’s just vast It’s the silence that swallows The past It’s the space between knowing and not The place where every answer rots And still I push the line forward Not for glory Not for grace Just because motion Is the only prayer That doesn’t lie To my face I am the witness I am the wound I am the rhythm That refuses to resolve I am the confession That keeps evolving I carry the line Carry the line Carry the line ...carry the line ~by Unreadhyperion / Sparky
