[Intro] [Low ominous bass drone] [Gritty flamenco acoustic guitar snaps violently on the heavy strings] [Vinyl crackle swells] [Breathless British spoken word delivery, close-mic] "Oh wow, you’re so talented! I wish I had your gift!" [Sudden tape stop effect] [Abrupt silence] [Vocal changes to a low, dead-pan, vicious British growl] No, motherfucker. You don’t. [Verse 1] [Gritty flamenco acoustic guitar with aggressive wooden slaps] [Frantic hip-hop pulse driving into the track] [Vocal delivery accelerates into breathless, rapid-fire British rap] You call it a gift but it’s wrapped in a wire, You look at the sparks and you call it a fire. You think that I sit here and casually choose To pick up the brush or to play with the blues? No, I’m a hostage to every design in my head, It tracks me to sleep and it stalks me in bed! Every waking moment, the gears are in motion, I’m drowning alive in a digital ocean. It fills up my dreams with a terrible weight, I despise the word "talent," I spit on the state! You think I got this for free? That it dropped from the sky? Like I woke up one morning with gold in my eye? It’s like tying your laces—a repetitive strain, You do it till it’s second nature to the brain. But I didn’t practice by choice or free will, I was dragged by the throat to the top of the hill! My mind follows the weight like gravity to the sun, A collision course starting before I've begun. It’s a prison of syntax, a geometric cell, And you’re standing outside throwing coins in the well! [Chorus] [Aggressive indie-rock strum takes over] [Vocal shifts to cracked melodic singing and shouted climaxes] Oh, you call it a blessing, I call it a curse! The further I build it, the total gets worse! Don’t praise me for something I cannot control— I’m just tearing the lining right out of my soul! [Verse 2] [Flamenco picking returns, sharper and more erratic, strings buzzing] [Rapid-fire British rap sprint, high vocal tension] They say "Take a break, go and sit in the sun," But the engine is running, it's never quite done! If I lay down my tools then the structure attacks, It starts feeding on me when the focus relaxes! It’s a compulsive engine, a mechanism cruel, And I’m just the grease for a merciless tool. I don't look at timber and see just a tree, I see joints, I see load, I see lines running free. I don't look at screens and see pixels and light, I see pathways and scripts that are clawing to bite. It’s a hyper-connected, electrical storm, That takes over the host just to fashion a form. So don’t tell me I'm lucky, don't say it’s a grace, When I'm clawing the skin right off of my face! [Chorus] [Aggressive indie-rock strum swells, maximum volume] [Shouted climax, voice breaking] Oh, you call it a blessing, I call it a curse! The further I build it, the total gets worse! Don’t praise me for something I cannot control— I’m just tearing the lining right out of my soul! [Outro] [Guitar falls into a slow, decaying strum, slightly out-of-tune glitch effects] [Spoken word delivery, tired and heavy breathing] From your side it's heaven, From my side it's hell. An overfilled room, where I permanently dwell. [Sudden tape stop effect] [Abrupt silence]
