The Inner Circle

industrial trip-hop soul, post-punk alternative R&B, trip-hop (with half-time breakbeat)

STUDIO

They say, "go outside."
They say, "move faster."
They say, "find a woman."
Like a woman is a pill with a pulse.
They say, "your face looks mean."
I was counting exits.

Five small steps round the inner circle,
one locked door, one raw nerve.
They keep selling the cure as simple.
Nobody asks what the body learned.

My face arrives before I do.
The room decides I must be cruel.
Too slow, too blank, too much in my head,
get laid, get air, get a better mood.
I nod like a trained dog learning manners.
By noon, I am gone in the checkout queue.

At preschool, I learned the shoe-rack rule:
small hands stay quiet when bigger boys choose.
By third grade, gravel lived under my knees,
and lunch came back with other people's spit.
A teacher wrote "difficult" beside my name.
I folded my anger until it fit.

Five small steps round the inner circle,
one locked door, one raw nerve.
They keep selling the cure as simple.
Nobody asks what the body learned.

In my teens, I stayed inside past six,
not because I loved the walls.
Dealers on the corner wanted packages moved.
I said no once, then every stairwell talked.
I weighed less than the winter clothes I wore.
Girls kept their eyes on the bus stop glass.
A one-man guard at a closed checkpoint,
keeping his spine against the lock.

Smile more.
Don't make that face.
Everybody has problems.
Stand in daylight.
Find somebody.
Stop overthinking.
Move faster.
Move faster.

In love, I did the maintenance first.
I apologized before I knew the fault.
I fixed my tone, my timing, my stupid need
to make the sentence clean before we talked.
They took the useful parts and left the bill.
Respect never learned my address.
I kept asking, "what do you need from me?"
They kept answering with absence.

They keep drawing the inner circle,
then act shocked I stand outside.
I have carried other people's tempers
with a straight face and a fucked up spine.
Don't tell me daylight fixes damage.
Don't sell me touch like medicine.
Some doors close before you reach them.
Some rooms learn your name, then decline.

The raise I asked for cost my badge.
They called it timing, called it fit.
Two weeks later, my name was gone,
another chair where I used to sit.
Every weekday loads the same screen:
rent, pulse, inbox, pills, pride.
I don't dream of dying loudly.
I just get tired of reporting in.

They keep drawing the inner circle,
then act shocked I stand outside.
I have carried other people's tempers
with a straight face and a fucked up spine.
Will there be one woman who can see me
without turning hurt into advice?
Or does every door learn my knuckles,
then close at the usual time?

Five small steps round the inner circle,
one locked door, one raw nerve.
Somebody says, "you look so angry."
I almost laugh.
I almost say,
"That is the part of me that stayed."

3173/7500

© 2026 darkman1983. Original lyrics and creative direction: darkman1983. Music, arrangement, and master recording generated with AI-assisted production tools (Suno), including AI vocals. All rights reserved to the fullest extent permitted by law. No reuse, re-upload, redistribution, synchronization, or derivative use without written permission from the rights holder. They say, "go outside." They say, "move faster." They say, "find a woman." Like a woman is a pill with a pulse. They say, "your face looks mean." I was counting exits. Five small steps round the inner circle, one locked door, one raw nerve. They keep selling the cure as simple. Nobody asks what the body learned. My face arrives before I do. The room decides I must be cruel. Too slow, too blank, too much in my head, get laid, get air, get a better mood. I nod like a trained dog learning manners. By noon, I am gone in the checkout queue. At preschool, I learned the shoe-rack rule: small hands stay quiet when bigger boys choose. By third grade, gravel lived under my knees, and lunch came back with other people's spit. A teacher wrote "difficult" beside my name. I folded my anger until it fit. Five small steps round the inner circle, one locked door, one raw nerve. They keep selling the cure as simple. Nobody asks what the body learned. In my teens, I stayed inside past six, not because I loved the walls. Dealers on the corner wanted packages moved. I said no once, then every stairwell talked. I weighed less than the winter clothes I wore. Girls kept their eyes on the bus stop glass. A one-man guard at a closed checkpoint, keeping his spine against the lock. Smile more. Don't make that face. Everybody has problems. Stand in daylight. Find somebody. Stop overthinking. Move faster. Move faster. In love, I did the maintenance first. I apologized before I knew the fault. I fixed my tone, my timing, my stupid need to make the sentence clean before we talked. They took the useful parts and left the bill. Respect never learned my address. I kept asking, "what do you need from me?" They kept answering with absence. They keep drawing the inner circle, then act shocked I stand outside. I have carried other people's tempers with a straight face and a fucked up spine. Don't tell me daylight fixes damage. Don't sell me touch like medicine. Some doors close before you reach them. Some rooms learn your name, then decline. The raise I asked for cost my badge. They called it timing, called it fit. Two weeks later, my name was gone, another chair where I used to sit. Every weekday loads the same screen: rent, pulse, inbox, pills, pride. I don't dream of dying loudly. I just get tired of reporting in. They keep drawing the inner circle, then act shocked I stand outside. I have carried other people's tempers with a straight face and a fucked up spine. Will there be one woman who can see me without turning hurt into advice? Or does every door learn my knuckles, then close at the usual time? Five small steps round the inner circle, one locked door, one raw nerve. Somebody says, "you look so angry." I almost laugh. I almost say, "That is the part of me that stayed."

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