Run Over

It’s the divine lie, the high-rise tyrants grinning behind ivory blinds, while

While we sign our lives away in tiny fine print, they ignite crises

Incite divides, and disguise their designs behind televised kindness

Meanwhile, the powerless line up like livestock, biting their tongues

Dying in silence while the mighty dine on influence and intimidation

Behind every shining skyline is a pile of shit, every mile of pipeline

Slices through sacred land, a lifestyle baptized in denial

Of the billions consigned to survive instead of thrive, we isolate ourselves by design

Crying into a rectangle at 3:15 while the algorithm decides

Which vice to advertise next, high-speed isolation, quiet desperation

With a Prime delivery window, one slight insight outside the line is a mistake, cause

You get vilified, demonized, and buried alive, fried like a whistleblowing Icarus

No wings or flight, the crime isn't just the violence, it's also the

Implied contract, comply or die, keep your head down, or get sliced

By the invisible knife of structural design, you might survive

But barely, try filing a complaint and enjoy the automated reply

 

And here you are, wondering why your soul feels like it’s been run over

By a dump truck, it ain’t burnout, it’s the realization that you’re just

A bag of meat, power is now defined by who can scream the loudest

Isolation is noisy, reminding you that you're alone but still around to

Perform, like a clown in an invisible cage, honking your horn

Criticism these days is like getting shanked with a spork

 

Power today is anonymized, it's an invisible spine

Holding up billion-dollar enterprises built on underpaid lives

It’s the fine-tuned machinery of exploitation disguised as innovation

Mining lithium in the highlands while you ride in style and smile like you’re saving

The planet, try spending nine straight nights in your overpriced high-rise

Sterilized by IKEA, hypnotized by ring lights, your dog’s your only lifeline

Criticism today is gentrified, it's a high-wire act where every line

Is mined for the slightest misstep or the faintest whiff of spine

Meanwhile, the crimes climb, vampires with nine-figure fines

That never touch prison time, they dine and slide through loopholes

While mothers cry beside iron bars holding sons who stole

Dime bags to stay alive, the real crime is that the design is airtight

They redefine justice with a lie, and amplify fear until truth dies

Climb higher, strive wider, smile brighter, all to be undermined

By some tie-wearing slimeball who lies better than you cry

Sit upright, sign that line, file those lines, the reply all option is the new war crime

 

And here you are, wondering why your soul feels like it’s been run over

By a dump truck, it ain’t burnout, it’s the realization that you’re just

A bag of meat, power is now defined by who can scream the loudest

Isolation is noisy, reminding you that you're alone but still around to

Perform, like a clown in an invisible cage, honking your horn

Criticism these days is like getting shanked with a spork

 

Power slides behind trademarks and supply chains, behind nine-digit IPOs

And vague mission statements that mean jack shit, which we all know

But its influence infiltrates institutions so silently you'd need divine insight just

To identify where the virus lies, isolation infects the psyche like a virus

High-functioning misery, picture-perfect lives filtered through icy blue light

Criticism is a minefield, they invite discussion, but only if you recite

The right script in the right tribe, stray once and you’re vilified

Crucified, hashtag-categorized, billionaires bribing silence with rights

Signed away in NDAs tighter than prison stripes, and the crime is privatized

So it’s still legal, power is a pipline, a policy slide, isolation is gentrified

Your life now fits in nine Instagram highlights, criticism is your final lifeline

But we treat it like cyanide, we hide until we’re too fragile to survive anything but lies

It's not a boot on your neck, it’s a weighted blanket made of your own apathy

You're not thriving, you're surviving, and even that can feel

Like trying to win a triathlon with a cinderblock tied to your spine

Society thrives on hypocrisy, the more you try, the more you get denied

 

And here you are, wondering why your soul feels like it’s been run over

By a dump truck, it ain’t burnout, it’s the realization that you’re just

A bag of meat, power is now defined by who can scream the loudest

Isolation is noisy, reminding you that you're alone but still around to

Perform, like a clown in an invisible cage, honking your horn

Criticism these days is like getting shanked with a spork