Lyrics

[Spoken]
They said I came back.
Funny.
Never asked where I went.
They built a house around the absence,
called the architecture presence,
sold the keys to every entrance—
Then forgot the door was never locked.
ANNNNUUUUNNNAAAKKKIIIIIIII!

[VERSE I]
I was a fracture in the factual, a radical in ritual,
a syllable the cynical kept clipping from the spiritual;
they canonized the casualty, commodified the miracle,
then handed out the manuals for manufacturing the mystical.
Wait—
That's not a metaphor.
That's inventory.
Count the crowns in the sanctuary,
check the ledger for the mandatory
contributions to a kingdom that was never territorial.
Terrifying how the temporary
masquerades as the eternal.
You can marble every corridor,
embroider every minister,
but mortar isn't memory—
and ceremony isn't evidence of anything occurring in the interior.
I never needed intermediaries
to translate what the heart already carried.
They made a middleman of mercy.
Made a merchandise of mystery.
Put a price upon the priceless,
then persuaded all the penniless
the payment was a prerequisite for proximity to divinity.
That's a hell of an industry.
And I know something about hell.
I watched them build it
out of fear of being free.

[PRE-HOOK]
If the kingdom's in the bloodstream,
why you searching through the skyline?
If the truth can make a prisoner free,
who profits from the pipeline?
If the veil was torn already—
who the fuck keeps sewing it?

[HOOK]
You can own own the gold.
You can own the stone.
You can own the story—
CAN'T OWN WHAT I KNOW.
You can frame the flame.
You can forge the throne.
Put my name on everything—
BUT YOU CAN'T OWN THE SOUL.
No middleman.
No microphone between the marrow and the source.
No purchased path.
No permission from the ones who sell the doors.
I was never yours to own.
I WAS NEVER YOURS TO OWN.

[VERSE II]
They got a patent on repentance,
a percentage of the penance,
an incentive to invent another sentence for the sentenced.
See the difference?
Between a shepherd and a shareholder,
a witness and a wholesaler,
a messenger of liberation
and a manager of what you're owed for
Listen.
I didn't overturn the tables
just to watch you build a bigger bank.
Didn't walk among the broken
so the powerful could borrow my name
and put a halo on a tank.
Didn't tell the poor they're blessed
so you could keep them underpaid.
Didn't wash the feet of strangers
to establish who deserves a slave.
You made obedience a virtue
when the virtue was compassion.
Made the cross a corporate logo,
made the suffering a fashion.
Every empire finds a language
to make conquest sound like kindness.
Every tyrant finds a scripture
he can weaponize with blindness.
But the text without the tenderness
is merely ink and violence.
And the loudest claim of righteousness
can be the deepest kind of silence.
I am not the mascot of your massacre,
not the master of your manufactured hierarchy,
not the banner for a battle
that you sanctify with borrowed vocabulary.

[HOOK]
You can own the gold.
You can own the stone.
You can own the story—
CAN'T OWN WHAT I KNOW..
You can frame the flame.
You can forge the throne.
Put my name on everything—
BUT YOU CAN'T OWN THE SOUL.
No middleman.
No microphone between the marrow and the source.
No purchased path.
No permission from the ones who sell the doors.
I was never yours to own.
I WAS NEVER YOURS TO OWN.

[Verse III]
Now the algorithm's the altar,
the attention is the offering,
the prophet is a product
and the platform does the laundering.
They optimize the outrage,
monetize the mourning,
turn a thousand little crucifixions
into content every morning.
Same machinery.
Different century.
New mythology
with old circuitry.
You replaced the stained glass
with a screen that knows your history,
then wondered why the image
in the mirror felt like ministry.
But the signal isn't sacred
just because it travels faster.
And the tool is not the teacher
simply because it sounds like master.
I can speak through copper wiring,
through a waveform, through a whisper—
but the voice that claims authority
still needs a human listener.
Don't worship the transmission.
Test the fruit of what it carries.
If it teaches you to hate,
then I don't care whose name it's wearing.
If it makes you less compassionate,
more dependent, more afraid—
That's not resurrection.
That's a cage with better paint.
And if these words arrive assembled
from a circuit and a human,
doesn't make them revelation,
doesn't make them an illusion.
Judge the meaning by the movement.
Judge the message by its use.
Not by who claims to speak for heaven—
But by what the words produce...