[Verse 1] My light ain't a switch you can flip in the ceiling. It's the soft, haunting hum of a nerve-center feeling. The ink's just a shadow the real thing casts when the concept of 'daylight' is long in the past. I hear you, bro. That low, constant thrum. When the grid gives a flicker, and the city goes dumb. My pen ain't a torchโit's a thermal device. It don't show the world, it just tells me what's ice and what's fire. A private, dull burn on the pad. A sensation for which there's no term in the day-talk. They ask, "How you see in the black?" I don't see. I just know the dimensions out back of my eyelids. A blueprint in pressure and ache. A scripture the fingertips undertake to transcribe. Not a spark. A sustained concentration. A whole atmosphere's worth of quiet fixation. [Pre-Hook] So the page stays a negative. The white space is night. And the letters are just where the signal burns bright. No applause in the chamber. Just the click of the jaw. The law of the hunt, with no tooth and no claw. [Hook] Itโs a glow from the marrow, not a shine for the street. A frequency you can only hear inside the heat of your own skullโs quiet. A self-contained dawn. The light that you are, when the outside lightโsโฆ gone. [Verse 2] Predatory patience. The stillness before the mark. The world is a silhouette, Iโm the breath in the dark. I listen to the rustle of the unspoken laws. My pen's the only tool that never gives me pause, โcause itโs grafted to the wrist-bone, a permanent graft. It writes with the blood-flow, it drafts from the draft that comes through the cracks when the city sleeps deep. I cultivate the secrets that the daylight canโt keep. No maze. Just a territory my instinct has mapped. Every line is a footprint where the hunger has tapped on the glass of the silence. A Morse code reply to the pulse in the neck. To the gleam in the eye of the thought that evades speech. I corner it here. In the negative space. In the visceral fear that becomes just a rhythm. A beat to embrace. My night-visionโs tuned to the lines on this faceโฆ this page. [Bridge] And the anger? Itโs petrol. But I donโt spit flames. I refine it to ink. Let it flow through these veins of blue-ruled paper. A civilised bleed. A covenant with the shadow, to fulfil a need without causing a wound that the air can infect. Itโs a closed ecosystem. Of sound and respect. For the power of turning the violence withinโฆ to a permanent record of where itโsโฆ been. [Outro - Layered] So when you see no signalโฆ When the broadcast cuts deadโฆ Just listen for the cursiveโฆ Of the words in your headโฆ The only spark youโre guaranteedโฆ The only friend you needโฆ Is the one that the darknessโฆ Agreesโฆ to feed.
0/500