They said build it, and the world would come, So I forged my name in fire, beat the warpath on the drum. Sold them visions of an empire, wrote the future in the sky, But I’m drowning in the backend—where the wreckage always lies. I paint the walls with gospel, make believers out of dust, Raise the towers higher, but the foundation starts to rust. They cheer my silver speeches, blind to the fractures in the glass, Every dollar’s just a deadline, breathing fire down my back. Every pitch is a prophecy, every slide is a spell, Every dollar I raise pulls me deeper into hell. But they don’t know the cost of the tempest I wrought, How the kingdom I conjured is built on what’s lost. I throw the Tempest Pitch, set the heavens on fire, But the wind rips the pages from the dreams I conspired. Lightning in my chest, thunder in my throat, Wrote the gospel of success, now I’m drowning in the notes. I throw the Tempest Pitch, make the world believe, But the storm keeps breaking, breaking under my feet. I don’t sleep, I don’t stop, I don’t breathe, I don’t blink, Every second’s another step closer to the brink. I run the numbers ‘til they fracture, spin the story ‘til it sings, Summon futures out of thin air—while my own ship sinks. They see the fire in my hands, they don’t taste the ash in my lungs, They see the gold on the surface, not the wreckage where I’ve run. I’m a sorcerer bound to the storm, a king without a throne, And I whisper to the waves while they pull me below. Every pitch is a prophecy, every slide is a spell, Every dollar I raise pulls me deeper into hell. But they don’t know the cost of the tempest I wrought, How the kingdom I conjured is built on what’s lost. I throw the Tempest Pitch, set the heavens on fire, But the wind rips the pages from the dreams I conspired. Lightning in my chest, thunder in my throat, Wrote the gospel of success, now I’m drowning in the notes. I throw the Tempest Pitch, make the world believe, But the storm keeps breaking, breaking under my feet. Behind the logos, behind the screens, Is a man who forgot what a quiet night means. Behind the funding, behind the show, Is a clock that keeps ticking, a debt that won’t slow. I throw the Tempest Pitch, set the heavens on fire, But the storm rips the roof off my own empire. Lightning in my chest, thunder in my throat, Wrote the gospel of success, now I’m drowning in the notes. I throw the Tempest Pitch, make the world believe, But the cracks keep spreading, swallowing me. The boardroom is silent. The numbers don’t lie. The Tempest Pitch… was just smoke in the sky.
