Poison in the Bloodline

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 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.