Amy Jean Nobles

I work hard for my pay but it ain’t enough to get by these days. I’m mad as hell and I ain’t gonna take it no more. Eat the rich, they got too much; eat the rich, it’s time for lunch. I see them laughing, driving fancy cars while I’m stuck here reaching for the stars. I’m mad as hell and I ain’t gonna take it no more. Eat the rich, they got too much; eat the rich, it’s time for lunch.

They built a toll road on the temples where the human spirit resides, put a fee on survival and a tariff on the turning tides. You’re worth more when you’re broken than when you’re clean and hale. The surgical extraction of your future is designed to fail. The debt is wrapped like binding wire around the vital vein, a guaranteed percentage harvested from every enduring pain. THE PRICE OF NEED IS OBSCENE, THE TARIFF OF EXISTENCE IS TOO STEEP; WE PAY WITH YEARS, WE PAY WITH LIFE, SERVING THE PROFIT CREEP. THEY CALL IT ENTERPRISE, I CALL IT SYSTEMATIC THEFT OF DIGNITY, OF HEALTH, OF EVERYTHING YOU’VE GOT LEFT. The forms are labyrinthine paper, designed to make your efforts void; a bureaucratic gauntlet that leaves the single parent’s soul destroyed. You watch your health charted on a screen of cold, clinical light while unseen hands ensure you cannot sleep well through the night. The only commodity that’s truly finite is your breath, and they found a way to tax it right up until your death.

The bass is rumblin’ low, like a promise or a threat; he’s sellin’ absolution for a price you ain’t paid yet. He’s a cartoon lion painted on a palace wall and y’all are prayin’ to the shadow, waitin’ for the call. He ain’t a man, he’s a mirror, shows you everything you want; a gaudy, gold-plated, patriotic, hollow font. He says the words you’re thinkin’ in the places you don’t speak, and you love him ’cause he’s wealthy, and you love him ’cause you’re weak. He loves the uneducated, he loves the easy mark; he’s a cheap and bitter carnival to light up in the dark. It’s the Golden Sickness, it’s a fever in your veins; you love the man who hates you while you’re standin’ in the rain. It’s the Golden Sickness and it’s rotten to the core; you’d burn the house down just to see what he would praise you for. He ain’t a politician, he’s a low-rent televangelist; a product-placemin’ prophet for the angry and the anarchist. But the “Anarchy” he’s sellin’ is just a different kind of chain; he’s the foreman of the prison, he’s the king of the profane. And you, you’re just a number, another face inside the crowd; another empty “amen” that you’re screamin’ way too loud. You think you’re in the inner circle, think you’re one of his own; he’d sell your bones for pavement if it’d get him back the throne. It’s the Golden Sickness, it’s a fever in your veins; you love the man who hates you while you’re standin’ in the rain. It’s the Golden Sickness and it’s rotten to the core; you’d burn the house down just to see what he would praise you for. You kiss the boot that breaks you, you cheer the hand that takes you; the sickness wants a martyr and you’re prayin’ to the fever. You’re prayin’ to the rage; you’re just a rat inside his golden cage.

The truth is gettin’ harder to find these days; it comes in fractured pieces through a staticky haze. There’s a man on the AM, his voice is full of rust; he’s sellin’ salvation and he’s peddlin’ disgust. He’s talkin’ ’bout the good old days, he’s talkin’ ’bout the fall, and you can hear the sound of grinning through the drywall of it all. He’s in the truck beside you, he’s in your daddy’s den, whispering the same old hateful lies all over again. And the signal gets stronger the further you drive out; he’s the patron saint of anger and the messiah of all doubt. His gospel is a simple one, it’s easy, and it’s clean; it divides the world in two, with nothing in between. And the static on the AM is the soundtrack to the war; a battle for the spirit of what you’re fighting for. It’s a low and steady humming of a comforting, old lie, while the truth is in the ditch that you are quickly passing by. Yeah, the static on the AM is a calculated sound to make you feel you’re righteous on this shaky, sinking ground. He’ll tell you who to blame for all the things you can’t control; the slow decay of opportunity, the cancer in your soul. He’ll give you simple targets, he’ll give you simple names; he’ll light the torch and hand it to you, absolve you of the flames. It’s a masterful performance, it’s a brilliant, evil art, to take a person’s weary and frustrated, broken heart and convince them that the poison that is making them so sick is the only cure they’ll ever need, so take it, and be quick. And the signal gets stronger the further you drive out; he’s the patron saint of anger and the messiah of all doubt. His gospel is a simple one, it’s easy, and it’s clean; it divides the world in two, with nothing in between. You can try to change the station, you can try to turn it off, but it’s in the air you’re breathing, it’s in your neighbor’s cough. It’s the background radiation of a hope that’s wearing thin; the frequency of malice that you’ve got to fight within. And the static on the AM is the soundtrack to the war; a battle for the spirit of what you’re fighting for. It’s a low and steady humming of a comforting, old lie, while the truth is in the ditch that you are quickly passing by. Yeah, the static on the AM is a calculated sound to make you feel you’re righteous on this shaky, sinking ground.

The silence in the kitchen is where the history resides; a fractured glass reflection where the generational shame hides. The ritual of pain was passed down in a brittle cup; the narcotic inheritance we are forced to imbibe. We watched the slow, chemical surrender of the will, the tremor of the sickness, the synthetic, chilling still. THE POISON IN THE BLOODLINE IS A HEAVY, RUSTED KEY; IT ONLY UNLOCKS THE WRECKAGE OF WHO YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE. WE ARE THE GENERATION FINALLY LEARNING HOW TO MOURN, STOLEN BY THE CLINICAL INDUSTRIAL-COMPLEX. They called the chronic pain weakness, called the consequence a flaw, ignoring the clinical industry that engineered the fatal law. The quiet desperation that runs deeper than the vein, a chemical covenant that floods you with the brutal, blinding strain of past decisions, past sorrows, the loop that won’t release; the melody of madness that destroys the inner peace.

The eggshells on the linoleum, a quiet, crunchy sound; I know the map of every creak, I know not to be found. I hold my breath when I hear footsteps in the hall outside my door; I’ve become a ghost inside the life I had before. He’s got a temper like the vicious weather, humid, hot, and quick, and I’m the lightnin’ rod that’s always gonna make it stick. He says he loves me when his knuckles aren’t acquainted with the wall; he says I’m everything, and then he makes me feel so small. THIS HOUSE IS HAUNTED BY THE MAN WHO’S STILL ALIVE, A PRISON I’VE BEEN GIVEN WHERE ONLY HALF OF ME SURVIVES. THIS ISN’T LOVE, IT’S VIOLENCE DRESSED UP IN A PRETTY LIE; MY BODY IS A BORDER AND YOU’RE NOT WELCOME HERE TONIGHT! The men in suits in the capitol, they got a lot to say about the borders of my body, what I’m doin’ anyway. They’re just a different kind of violence, in a suit and in a tie; a different kind of “daddy” who believes I shouldn’t try to own the skin I’m in, to own the choice I make. They want to lock the door and then decide who gets the key to take my future. But this house ain’t theirs, this body ain’t their state; it’s the last line of defiance and they’re standin’ at the gate. THIS HOUSE IS HAUNTED BY THE GHOSTS OF OLD MEN’S LAWS, THEY’RE SCRATCHIN’ AT THE WINDOWS WITH THEIR SELF-RIGHTEOUS CLAWS. THIS ISN’T FREEDOM, IT’S A CAGE DRESSED UP IN RED AND WHITE; MY BODY IS A BORDER AND YOU’RE NOT WELCOME HERE TONIGHT! I’m not a rib. I’m not your vessel. I’m not your property. I’m not a test. I’m not a consensus. I’m not your debate. I am a fortress. I am my own state. I am my own. I am my own. THIS HOUSE IS HAUNTED BY THE MAN WHO’S STILL ALIVE, A PRISON I’VE BEEN GIVEN WHERE ONLY HALF OF ME SURVIVES; THIS ISN’T LOVE, IT’S VIOLENCE DRESSED UP IN A PRETTY LIE; MY BODY IS A SOVEREIGN STATE AND YOU ARE NOT WELCOME.

They flashed the flawless surface, the immaculate facade; the promised house of mirrors that was consecrated by the corporate god. You bought the golden fiction, the illusion of assent, chasing a mirage until your spiritual reserves were spent. The foundation was quicksand, concealed beneath the rug; a universal deception delivered with a corporate shrug. IT’S THE GOLDEN LIE, BABY, SHINING STERILE, BLINDING, AND CLEAN; THE FASCIST MANIFESTO THAT THE BOARDROOM HAS EVER SEEN. YOU CHASE THE PHANTOM IMAGE, YOU SWALLOW THE SPIRITUAL DECAY; A BEAUTIFUL DISTORTION BUILT TO KEEP THE BRUTAL TRUTH AWAY. The dream is a dictatorship, demanding your full, mental yield; it feeds on quiet envy and keeps your true vision concealed. The leaders preach contentment from pedestals of stolen, precious time while the masses chase a finish line that vanishes before the chime. They engineered an addiction to perpetual, vast want, ensuring that your future reflects the empty places you haunt. IT’S THE GOLDEN LIE, BABY, SHINING STERILE, BLINDING, AND CLEAN; THE FASCIST MANIFESTO THAT THE BOARDROOM HAS EVER SEEN. YOU CHASE THE PHANTOM IMAGE, YOU SWALLOW THE SPIRITUAL DECAY; A BEAUTIFUL DISTORTION BUILT TO KEEP THE BRUTAL TRUTHS AWAY.

My grandpa fought, he fought for what was right beneath the sun; he knew the day would come when we would all be free. It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t meant to be; American soil, it is in my blood. American soil, love it like you should. My grandma cried for those who lost their lives, for those enslaved, for futures they had craved; she dreamed of better days. It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t meant to be; American soil, it is in my blood. American soil, love it like you should.

The creek behind the church is running thick and strange today; there’s a film of broken rainbows where the children used to play. The catfish are all belly-up, a silent, silver fleet, and the air is thick with chemicals, both bitter and too sweet. The farmers pray for rain, but the clouds are full of rust, turning all their golden fields to consecrated dust. They say it’s just the season, say it’s just a damn dry spell, but we know they’re selling off the water from the deepest well. They sold the sky above us and the dirt beneath our shoes, then they taught us how to sing a more convenient kind of blues, where the villain is your neighbor and the poison is the cure, and the only thing that’s certain is that nothing is for sure. And the river don’t rise for the righteous, the sun don’t shine for the blessed; it just shines on the politician’s smile and the cancer in your chest. Yeah, the river don’t care who is praying, it don’t care who is good; it just carries all the poison through your ruined neighborhood. No, the river don’t rise for the righteous, it just does what it’s told by the men who turned the water into stock that can be sold. The trees are getting tired, you can see it in the leaves; they’re forgetting how to change now, like a widow who still grieves for a world that had a rhythm, for a world that had a rhyme before they started drawing their new maps on top of time. They build their gleaming factories on sacred, stolen ground, and the only thing that trickles down is the acid raining down. We used to read the signs in nature, the birds upon the wire; now the only sign we get is the color of the fire. The land itself is speaking, but it’s in a foreign tongue; the dying of the bees, the silence in the young. It’s a ballad of betrayal, a slow and toxic fade for the love of profit and the terrible trade. And the river don’t rise for the righteous, the sun don’t shine for the blessed; it just shines on the politician’s smile and the cancer in your chest. Yeah, the river don’t care who is praying, it don’t care who is good; it just carries all the poison through your ruined neighborhood. No, the river don’t rise for the righteous, it just does what it’s told by the men who turned the water into stock that can be sold.

The clock hand is a razor cutting slow across the pane, another borrowed hour to anesthetize the crushing strain. The crystal glasses line the window, polished artifacts of dread; mute sentinels of secrecy, guarding what was better left unsaid. I listen for the slow decay of the truth I can’t evade and settle for the deep exhaustion in the shadows I have made. THIS IS THE 200 PROOF SILENCE, A FRAGILE, BRITTLE GRACE, A TEMPORARY AMNESTY FROM THE ECHOES OF THE ABUSE. THE WORLD GOES MUTED, STATIC DIES, THE HUM SUBSIDES TO NAUGHT, BUT THE QUIET HERE IS HEAVIER THAN ANY TRAUMA I FOUGHT. The reckoning is coming, felt deep within the core of the bone; the price of every borrowed breath I had to face alone. I trace the lines of fracture where the promised peace used to sit and pray the liquid comfort keeps the terror deep within the pit. The chaos of the mind needs a muzzle, needs a calming hand, or the whole damned engine runs away and scatters on the land. THIS IS THE 200 PROOF SILENCE, A FRAGILE, BRITTLE GRACE, A TEMPORARY AMNESTY FROM THE ECHOES OF THE ABUSE. THE WORLD GOES MUTED, STATIC DIES, THE HUM SUBSIDES TO NAUGHT, BUT THE QUIET HERE IS HEAVIER THAN ANY TRAUMA I FOUGHT.

Go on and take your black marker, draw your lines across the page and convince yourself that history is something you can cage. Go on and pull the books down from the shelves for all to see; you’re the hero of a story that is written by decree. You think the truth is something you can edit and command, a disobedient subject that is getting out of hand. So you silence all the artists and you censor every song, and you tell us that you’re making this republic pure and strong. But you don’t understand the power of a thing that is denied; the only thing you’re building is a place for truth to hide and gather all its strength until it’s ready to ignite in the suffocating darkness of your artificial light. ‘Cause every redacted word will be a witness to your crime, a black and silent monument that will outlast your time. Every book you burn is just a torch to light our way, and every voice you try to silence has a million things to say. Yeah, every redacted word will be a future prosecutor’s proof, the quiet, screaming evidence of your war against the truth. We will write it on the bathroom stalls, we’ll spray it on the walls; we’ll pass it in the whispers that echo in these halls. You can’t kill an idea, you can only make it strong; you can’t erase the memory of where it all went wrong. Your empire of black ink is just a temporary stain, and the truth is comin’ for you like a cleansing, driving rain. So hide behind your edits, hide behind your vicious lies; we’re the generation that is here to watch your kingdom die. ‘Cause every redacted word will be a witness to your crime, a black and silent monument that will outlast your time. Every book you burn is just a torch to light our way, and every voice you try to silence has a million things to say. Yeah, every redacted word will be a future prosecutor’s proof, the quiet, screaming evidence of your war against the truth.

They tell you that your voice is just a whisper in the wind, a sentimental notion of where to begin. A sad and pretty melody, a tune you softly hum while you’re waiting for a future that is never gonna come. They want you to believe it, that your power is a song, a lovely, useless gesture to prove where you belong. On the losing side of history, the romantic and the weak; the quiet, gentle people who are too afraid to speak. And they’re not wrong, you know, our vote can feel just like a prayer, a lonely piece of paper surrendered to the air. A hopeful little story told against a coming tide, a place where all our better angels have to run and hide. And our ballots are just ballads, they’re just sorrowful and slow; a tune about a better world we don’t know how to grow. They’re a hymn about a harvest that we’re never gonna see, a quiet lamentation for the way things ought to be. But you gather all the singers, and you get them in a room, and that ballad starts to sound a lot more like a sonic boom. You sing your song into the void, you sing it clear and true, and your neighbor in the darkness, they start singing with you too. And soon the air is trembling with a new and fearsome chord, a harmony of every single soul that’s been ignored. It’s the music of the fed-up, the forgotten and the wronged, the place where every single one of us has now belonged. And the men up in the tower, they can hear the rising sound and they feel the steady rhythm shaking their unholy ground. A single voice is just a note, a single vote’s a word, but a million make a message that will damn well be heard. And a ballad can be beautiful, but a chorus is a threat, and every single one of us ain’t finished singing yet. So sing your heart out, sing your pain, sing for the stolen and the lost. A ballad is just a ballad ’til you calculate the cost of what will happen if we stop, and then you multiply the sound until it is a bullet in the silence all around. And our ballots are just ballads, they’re just sorrowful and slow; a tune about a better world we don’t know how to grow. They’re a hymn about a harvest that we’re never gonna see, a quiet lamentation for the way things ought to be. But you gather all the singers, and you get them in a room, and that ballad starts to sound a lot more like a sonic boom.

Sarah’s packin’ up the Honda, it’s a 2003; the kids are in the back seat, they’re watchin’ TV on a phone that’s almost dead, the bill is overdue. She’s tellin’ them it’s “camping,” but they’re old enough to know the truth. The eviction notice came and went, the marshall knocked today; her two jobs weren’t enough, there was no other way. She’s parkin’ in the Walmart lot, between a truck and RV and hopin’ that the cops don’t come and ask for her ID. Oh, the stars are cold and bright in this land of golden light, and the cathedral bell is ringin’ but the doors are locked up tight. They say that God is watchin’ but he must have turned away, ’cause in a land of plenty the only sin is need, today. She’s tryin’ to find a shelter, but the shelters are all full of other families just like hers, who lost the toxic pull of a paycheck-to-paycheck life, one sickness from the end. One broken bone, one busted car, one “no” from just one friend. She’s got a college education, she’s got a resume, but the algorithm passed her over for a lower, younger pay. And the billionaires are buildin’ “homes” that no one lives inside while Sarah’s kids are askin’ “Mom, where are we gonna hide?”. Oh, the stars are cold and bright in this land of golden light, and the cathedral bell is ringin’ but the doors are locked up tight. They say that God is watchin’ but he must have turned away, ’cause in a land of plenty the only sin is need, today. The land of the free, the home of the brave, the nation that lets you sleep in your grave that you dug yourself with your own two hands in the richest, cruelest, promised land.

They’re not kicking in the doors, they’re just changing all the locks; they’re not burning all the books, they’re just redesigning the blocks of text until the meaning’s gone, until the truth is blurred, until the revolution is a misremembered word. The evil’s not a monster, it’s a memo and a pen in the hands of tired, smiling, ordinary men who draft a thousand pages of a scripture of subtraction, a quiet, slow, and legislative, terminal transaction. It’s a gospel of nostalgia for a time that never was, and it justifies the cruelty with a paragraph and clause. They’re turning back the clock, not with a bang, but with a tick; a quiet little poison that is designed to make you sick. ‘Cause the devil’s in the details, and the devil’s in the fine print, in the footnote of the law that’s got a malevolent glint. They’re not stealing your whole future, just the parts that let you choose; it’s the slow and steady victory of those who love to see you lose. Yeah, the devil’s in the details, the comma and the date, the bureaucratic patience of a well-constructed hate. They’re not building any prisons, they’re just making smaller cages by redacting all the hope from history’s most sacred pages. They are experts in the art of making freedom look like sin and makin’ you believe the walls are there to keep the danger from within. They will tell you it’s for safety, they will tell you it’s for grace while they’re engineering the extinction of a time and of a place where a person could be complicated, messy, and alive. Now the only thing they ask of you is that you quietly survive. So read it all twice over, every single word they write; the darkness is not coming in the middle of the night. It’s arriving in the daytime, with a lawsuit and a smile and it’s asking for your patience, just for a little while. ‘Cause the devil’s in the details, and the devil’s in the fine print, in the footnote of the law that’s got a malevolent glint. They’re not stealing your whole future, just the parts that let you choose; it’s the slow and steady victory of those who love to see you lose.

They’re not knockin’ on the door, they’re already in the house; they’ve been quiet in the attic, quiet as a little mouse. They’ve been redrawin’ all the maps, they’ve been poisonin’ the well, they’ve been teachin’ all the children that their history is hell. They want a different kind of flag, a different kind of pledge. They’re pushin’ all the “others” to the very outer edge; they want a nation “pure” again, they want a nation “clean”. They’ve got a brand new book of laws, it’s brutal and it’s mean. SO WE WILL BE THE FIRE, WE WILL BE THE RAGE, WE’LL BE THE ONES WHO STAND AND TURN THE GODDAMN PAGE. THIS IS THE NEW RESISTANCE, THEY CAN’T STAMP IT OUT; WE’LL BURN THEIR BANNERS DOWN, WE’LL LEAVE ‘EM WITH NO DOUBT; WE’LL BURN ‘EM DOWN! They call us the aggressors ’cause we won’t accept the chain, they call us the dividers ’cause we’re standin’ in the rain and tellin’ them the storm is real, the levees gonna break. They call it “civil discourse” when they’re feedin’ you the snake; this ain’t a “difference of opinion,” this is life and this is death. This is a fight for the very right to draw a simple breath. They want compliance, they want silence, they want patriotic fear; but the sound of my rebellion is the only sound they’ll hear. SO WE WILL BE THE FIRE, WE WILL BE THE RAGE, WE’LL BE THE ONES WHO STAND AND TURN THE GODDAMN PAGE. THIS IS THE NEW RESISTANCE, THEY CAN’T STAMP IT OUT; WE’LL BURN THEIR BANNERS DOWN, WE’LL LEAVE ‘EM WITH NO DOUBT; WE’LL BURN ‘EM DOWN! My grandma told me ’bout this, she saw it in her day, the way the ordinary people learn to look the other way. The way the darkness dresses up in a suit and tie and smiles and promises a future while it’s stackin’ up the piles… of the books… and the bodies… No. Not again. SO WE WILL BE THE FIRE, WE WILL BE THE RAGE, WE’LL BE THE ONES WHO STAND AND TURN THE GODDAMN PAGE. THIS IS THE NEW RESISTANCE, THEY CAN’T STAMP IT OUT; WE’LL BURN THEIR BANNERS DOWN, WE’LL LEAVE ‘EM WITH NO DOUBT; WE’LL BURN ‘EM DOWN!

They used to point at us on maps, a place to leave behind, a cautionary tale for the sophisticated mind. They talked about our poverty, our stubborn, sinful pride, the slow and sleepy river where the nation’s progress died. We were the dark and troubled heart, the wound that wouldn’t heal, a place apart from everyone, too broken to be real. We were the problem they could measure, the sorrow they could name, the board on which they played their self-congratulatory game. They’d say, “Thank God we’re not like them, thank God we’ve moved ahead” while they were listenin’ to our music and sleepin’ in our beds. Of stories that we told ’em, of the blues that we had bled; they never understood a single goddamn word we said. ‘Cause the floodwaters are rising past the Mason-Dixon line, and that shadow that you pitied is a shadow you now find is fallin’ on your own town, your school, your sacred vow. Congratulations, darlin’, we’re all Mississippi now. You woke up one bright morning and the laws felt strange and old, and the rights you took for granted had been auctioned off and sold. Your neighbor started lookin’ at your kids a different way, and the words you couldn’t fathom, you were hearin’ every day. That same old fear we’ve tasted, that same old bitter pill of a minority of angry men who bend the world to their own will is poisoning your water, it’s seeping in your ground, the same old silent treatment in your once-progressive town. So welcome to the struggle, we’ve kept a seat for you; welcome to the place where just your breathing is a thing you have to fight to do. There is no more “us and them,” there is no “there and here”; there’s only all of us together in this atmosphere of fear. ‘Cause the floodwaters are rising past the Mason-Dixon line, and that shadow that you pitied is a shadow you now find is fallin’ on your own town, your school, your sacred vow. Congratulations, darlin’, we’re all Mississippi now.

I see you Mama, yeah I see your tears; your baby boy gone after all these years. I know your pain runs so deep; baby rest now. Mama’s Song, it ain’t right no no; Mama’s Song, let your anger flow. Another day, another lost child; system’s a game running wild. Sing your truth so they weep; baby rest now. Mama’s Song, it ain’t right no no; Mama’s Song, let your anger flow.

The rusted fences bleeding red, the poisoned earth is black; got a story in my bones the history books attack. It’s a story of a blue light in a thick and heavy fog and a body pulled from water, heavy as a water log. They told us that the sickness was a regional kind of thing, the bitter fruit we harvested, the songs we had to sing. They lied, they lied, they built a wall and said “it’s only there”. Now the storm we knew is breakin’ and it’s rainin’ everywhere. The sirens ain’t a warning now, they’re just the daily news; a classroom full of children payin’ everybody’s dues. This ain’t no local horror story, this ain’t some local blight; this is the American Condition in the harsh and blinding light. The fever that we warned about has finally come to pass; the future is a shadow that the past has come to cast. And the choir’s singin’ mournful from the steeple to the floor; this ain’t your neighbor’s problem anymore. They gentrified the horror, y’all, they packaged up the pain, put a filter on the trauma, called it sunshine, called it rain. But the shadow from the gallows looks a lot like a school door and the mob that came with torches just bought ammo at the store. The extremism ain’t a fringe, it’s sitting on the bench; it’s writing all the laws and smiling with a patriot’s stench. The fear we had to breathe so thick it settled in our lungs is now the common language rollin’ off a million tongues. They tested it on us, you see; the poverty, the hate, the apathy. They perfected the disease and now you’re all believin’ the same old lie we died for. This ain’t no local horror story, this ain’t some local blight; this is the American Condition in the harsh and blinding light. The fever that we warned about has finally come to pass; the future is a shadow that the past has come to cast. And the choir’s singin’ mournful from the steeple to the floor; this ain’t your neighbor’s problem anymore.

Did I see that, did I hear it, did they really say the words? Or am I just another casualty of the information herds? They’re tellin’ me the fire’s not burnin’ while I’m chokin’ on the smoke, they’re tellin’ me the ship ain’t sinkin’ while the hull is clearly broke. They got a different version of the facts for every day, a “truth” that shifts and shimmers, then it just evaporates away. It’s a national charade, it’s a collective fever dream and I’m screamin’ at the top of my lungs, but no one hears the scream. Oh, we’re learnin’ to love the lie, we’re just findin’ our new high; it’s the Gaslight Anthem, baby. Sing it loud and sing it proud; it’s not really happenin’ if you don’t say it to the crowd. They got the banners and the slogans, they got the righteous, angry face; they’re tearin’ down the pillars of the whole entire place. And when you show the footage, they just say it’s “fake news”. They’ve manufactured a reality that they can pick and choose; the sky is green, the grass is blue, the war is peace, the lie’s the truth. They’ve got a generation high on fabricated, bitter fruit; and if you dare to question, you’re the enemy, the state is just a figment of the “woke,” “communist” coastal hate. Oh, we’re learnin’ to love the lie, we’re just findin’ our new high; it’s the Gaslight Anthem, baby. “I never said that.” “You’re misremembering.” “It was a joke.” “Why are you so sensitive.” “It wasn’t me.” “Prove it”.

The frequency is changing, can you hear the cipher clear? The truth is not the news, it’s the trembling, primal, therapeutic fear. The covenant of civility just fractured underfoot; the parasitic architecture of the root. This hostile transmission cuts through the fabricated sound, a kinetic reckoning of futures buried deep beneath the ground. This is not a warning, this is the final, concrete fact; the moment where the mirror shattered, and we refuse to look back. THE FRACTURE IS FINAL, THE CODE IS UNVEILED, THE SYSTEM IS THE SICKNESS, THE FASCIST HAS FAILED. WE ARE THE STATIC, THE DISCORDANT NOISE IN YOUR HEAD, THE RECKONING HAS AWAKENED THE SILENCE OF THE DEAD. The velocity of chaos outpaces all consensus, know, the final debt is etched in the marrow of the slow. The cold reflection shows the history we sold; the future is not silver, it’s a terrifying, crucible gold. THE FRACTURE IS FINAL, THE CODE IS UNVEILED, THE SYSTEM IS THE SICKNESS, THE FASCIST HAS FAILED. WE ARE THE STATIC, THE DISCORDANT NOISE IN YOUR HEAD, THE RECKONING HAS AWAKENED THE SILENCE OF THE DEAD.

Go to sleep, my darlin’, and don’t you be afraid of the monsters in the stories that the government has made, that howl outside your window, that whisper in the night. We will be the wall between you and their fading, hateful light. You were born into the chaos, you were born into the rage of a weak man’s final, desperate, and pathetic final stage. And we’re sorry that you have to hear the thunder and the cries, but we’re forging you a future with the fury in our eyes. This ain’t your cross to bear, my child, this isn’t your crusade; this is the ugly, bitter promise that our generation made to never let this happen, and we failed you, that is true. So now we’ll spend our lives making it right again for you. ‘Cause this ain’t your cross to bear, my love, it is our axe to grind against the men who’d leave a just and decent world behind. So rest your head and dream of things we’re fighting to restore; this is our burden, this is our war. We will not teach you prayers, we’ll teach you history instead, the names of all the heroes that the textbooks say are dead. We’ll teach you how to question, how to see behind the veil and how a system built on lies is always meant to fail. We are the generation that is absorbing all the pain so you can learn to trust the feeling of the clean and honest rain. We will take the trauma so that you can have the peace, we’ll be the damn storm chasers ’til the violent storm has ceased.

The air got thick today, the sky turned a different shade, like a promise getting sick, like a debt that can’t be paid. There’s a whisper in the static on the late-night radio about a slow and steady winter comin’ for the things we know. The statues in the city park, they’ve started lookin’ nervous, like they know they’re not the only ones who’ve outlived their purpose. And the church bells don’t sound holy, they just sound like they’re afraid, a eulogy for every single decent choice we made. There’s a rumor of a future written in a different ink, one that makes you watch your words and makes you watch the way you think. They say the river’s gonna rise, they say the well is running dry, they say a lot of things to you without ever meeting your eye. ‘Cause the vultures are circlin’ the capitol dome and they’re lookin’ down on us like we are carrion, like we are home. There’s a shadow growin’ longer, a chill is in the breeze, and the sound of freedom’s dying is the rustlin’ in the trees. Yeah, the vultures are circlin’, they’re patient and they’re cruel and they’re waitin’ for the rest of us to learn their golden rule. The old folks on the porches have stopped tellin’ any tales, they just starin’ at the horizon, inspecting their fingernails as if the dirt beneath ’em holds a truth they can’t admit, that the ground beneath our feet is gettin’ ready to split. I saw the flag at half-mast, but nobody had died, just a feelin’ in my gut that somethin’ beautiful had lied about the nature of its promise, about the shelter it would give, about the basic, simple right to choose the way you live. It ain’t the thunder that you worry ’bout, it’s the quiet in the air; the calm before the hurricane, a silence like a prayer for somethin’ that ain’t comin’, for somethin’ that is gone. And the vultures keep on circlin’ from dusk until the dawn.

They build their walls so high, try to block out the sun, but darling you and I know their time is done. Let the rhythm hit em, they won’t forget it; against the grain we rise, against the grain we fight, against the grain no lies, we burn so bright. They preach their twisted hate, spreading fear and lies, but love will seal their fate, reflected in their eyes. Let the rhythm hit em, they won’t forget it; against the grain we rise, against the grain we fight, against the grain no lies, we burn so bright.

The final ledger’s open, and the ink is drawn in shame. For every silenced breath, for every unsaid name. The disregard for life is not error, it’s a structural disease that travels on the current of complacent ease. The lawman’s shadow falls, cold and unchecked, across the floor; a uniform of violence that we’ve seen a thousand times before. They trade their oaths for cruelty, their power for the pain and the only truth that matters is the terror in the lane. WE ARE THE AUDIT OF THE SILENCE, THE FINAL, UNCOMPROMISING SUM; THE FUCKING RECKONING IS HERE, AND IT’S FINALLY BEGUN. SHUT YOUR MOUTH AND SIT DOWN, OPEN UP YOUR MIND, APOLOGIZE AND MAKE THINGS RIGHT; WELCOME TO HELL, YOU MIGHT LIKE IT HERE TONIGHT. They trade the easy hate online, the poisoned, adolescent rage fueling the brittle killers who are trapped inside the cage. The cost of self-identity is the ultimate, final flaw and the system is a puppet for the men who write the law. Go do business with the devil, ’cause the devil’s got the purse; this is the only language that can finally break the curse. WE ARE THE AUDIT OF THE SILENCE, THE FINAL, UNCOMPROMISING SUM; THE FUCKING RECKONING IS HERE, AND IT’S FINALLY BEGUN. SHUT YOUR MOUTH AND SIT DOWN, OPEN UP YOUR MIND, APOLOGIZE AND MAKE THINGS RIGHT; WELCOME TO HELL, YOU MIGHT LIKE IT HERE TONIGHT.

I hope this letter finds you, sir, I hope you have the time between the rallies and the ruin, to read this little rhyme. I’m writing from the heart of what you say you came to save, a land of quiet desperation, a half-empty, open grave. I have a simple question, if I may be so bold, for the prophet of the forgotten, with the palace made of gold. When you see the children in the cages, do you see your children’s eyes? Or are they just a currency of your acceptable lies? Does the sound of all that cheering drown the sound of all the cries? Does the loyalty they offer you feel like a sweet surprise? Or does it feel just like a weapon that you’ve sharpened and you’ve aimed at the heart of every single thing you secretly disdained? Did you ever love this country, sir, or just the sound of your own name? Did you ever see the people, or just pieces in a game? When you talk about your greatness, and the paradise you’ve built, do you ever feel the tremor of a nation’s rising guilt? And when you look out from your tower, at the smoke and at the fire, are you proud of your creation, does it feed your soul’s desire? I’m writing from a town that has a brand new kind of fear; we were told the threat was coming, we never thought the threat was here. Inside the halls of power, with a smile and with a pen, turning all our decent neighbors into your kind of angry men. You promised us a feast, but all you gave us was the salt to rub into the open wounds and tell us it’s our fault that we are broken, that we’re failing, that we’ve somehow lost the thread while you were selling off the future for the voices in your head. This isn’t a rebellion, ’cause you’ve taken all the guns and given them to fearful fathers and their nervous, angry sons. No, this is just a letter, from a place you’ll never see, a quiet conversation between what you are and me. A final, simple question, that I need you to impart: did you ever, for a second, have a single human heart?

They’re rewritin’ the deed to this body of mine with a footnote of scripture, poison on the vine. They’re drawin’ new borders in my blood, in my bones and talkin’ ’bout the tenants in authoritative tones. They want to board the windows up so no one can see in and claim the choices I would make are some kind of mortal sin. This ain’t a temple for their worship, this ain’t a plot of land; this is the only thing I have that they don’t understand. This architecture tells a story they are tryin’ to erase, puttin’ their own portraits up all over my own face. They wanna name the rooms and tell me where I’m allowed to be inside the very home that was created just for me. ‘Cause this house is not your home, this vessel is not your state; you can’t legislate the spirit, you can only legislate the hate. You can knock upon the door with the full force of the law, but my soul has got a deadbolt, and it’s the only one you never saw. Yeah, this skin is not your property, this heart is not your prize and the truth is burnin’ brighter than the panic in your eyes. They speak a different language, a dialect of dust, of men who wrote the rules down based on power and on lust. To own a person’s future, to regulate their form, to tell a soul its nature is to deviate the norm. They see a blueprint they can alter, a structure to condemn, a problem for the ages they can solve with just a pen. But the ink they use is fading, and the paper’s wearing thin and they can’t account for the defiant fire that burns within. This house has got a memory, this house has got a will and when you try to break it, it just stands up even stiller. It will not be evicted, it will not be possessed; it is the only sanctuary where my spirit comes to rest.

From coast to shining coast they say, but who’s shining now; I see shadows stretch and play across this furrowed brow. So raise a glass and sing a song; this American land is our American land; fight for American land, freedom. My grandpa crossed the sea so wide to chase a promised dream, but factories swallowed him inside, a silent screaming scene. So raise a glass and sing a song; this American land is our American land; fight for American land, freedom.

I see you standing there, so afraid to breathe; they told you life’s unfair, what did you believe. But baby that ain’t you, no that’s not you; a woman is born tonight, she’s taking back the light; a woman is born I see, a woman is finally free. The mirror’s got you now, caught in yesterday; but baby anyhow you’ll find a better way. ‘Cause baby that is you, yes that is you. A woman is born tonight, she’s taking back the light; a woman is born I see, a woman is finally free.

Walls closing in, heads spinning now; we were laughing then, we ain’t laughing now. Gotta fight it, gotta right it; RISE, can you feel it now; RISE, come on shout it out; RISE, we will never bow; RISE. Used to be so blind, couldn’t see the hate; now we speak our minds before it gets too late. Gotta fight it, gotta right it; RISE, can you feel it now; RISE, come on shout it out; RISE, we will never bow; RISE.

For the ones who feel erased, for the ones they mis-define, for the kid in the back bedroom just tryin’ to find a sign that the world is not as cruel as the one inside their home. That the static in their head will not forever be their own; I see you. I am you. I was you. And I’m here. I’m just a broken vessel who’s been conquering the fear for a minute. For a lifetime. For a song. For a breath. For a promise that we’re makin’ that we’ll fight until the death. THIS IS THE VOW, THIS IS THE STORM, THIS IS THE REASON WE WERE BORN TO BE THE LIGHTHOUSE IN THE ENDLESS NIGHT, TO BE THE ONE LAST SHINING LIGHT; WE WILL BE THE LIGHTHOUSES. This is for the mothers, for the “shes” and for the “theys,” for the ones who find their family in the back-alley displays of affection, of protection, of a chosen, sacred bond that’s stronger than the bloodline that they tell you to be fond of. This is for the weary, for the ones who wanna quit, who’ve been fightin’ for so long they don’t know where they’re gonna sit to rest their bones. You rest ’em here. You rest ’em now with me. I’ll take the watch, I’ll hold the line, I’ll be the one to see. THIS IS THE VOW, THIS IS THE STORM, THIS IS THE REASON WE WERE BORN TO BE THE LIGHTHOUSE IN THE ENDLESS NIGHT, TO BE THE ONE LAST SHINING LIGHT; WE WILL BE THE LIGHTHOUSES. The storm is here. The rain is hard. The sea is rage. But we are the rock. We are the vow. We are the light. We will not be moved. We will not go dark. THIS IS THE VOW, THIS IS THE STORM, THIS IS THE REASON WE WERE BORN TO BE THE LIGHTHOUSE IN THE ENDLESS NIGHT, TO BE THE ONE LAST SHINING LIGHT; WE WILL BE THE LIGHTHOUSES.