These Words Are Rain

They say they're the cry of the impoverished

or the clenched fist of the misunderstood

to guide em through the night but I see crooks in disguise. Only demagogues who wanna wake me up and turn on the lights. But I just can't remember going to sleep or closing my eyes.

These words are rain on the fields of hate.

On anguish and brimstone,

there grows a dangerous plant.

And the fruit it bears taste like despair

and reeks of the old scent of insecurity.

Preaching fear and dread.

Preaching fear and dread.

Till fear goes from our face and anger takes its place instead.

I am the light that breaks my night.

Don't need another Jesus Christ to open up my eyes. I am the light that self-ignites. Don't need another rhetorician to declare my condition.

Hotbed of the cataclysm

Lost somewhere in the algorithm.

And all of this leaves you with

a narrative with no alternative.

These words are rain on the fields of hate.

On anguish and brimstone there grows a dangerous plant.

And the fruit it bears taste like despair

and reeks of the old scent of insecurity

and false unity that winds up to

conformity.

And if talking back won't make them stop

It comes down to these two things we ́ve got.

The ballot box.

The ballot box.

The ballot box

Or the barricades.

I don't need guidance that sews my mouth shut.

These words aren't worth the ink. I don ́t need saving.