They scan the page for digital footprints,
Searching for a ghost inside the gears,
Claiming every rhythm is a program
And every drop of salt is plastic tears.
But code don't know the way a heartbeat stutters,
And silicon can't feel the bite of cold.....
They’re staring at the lightning I’ve captured
While trying to claim the thunder has been sold.
To the skeptics and the kings of hollow rumors....
My spirit wasn't built by "search and find."
You can't "generate" the scars I’ve lived through,
Or "copy-paste" the hallways of my mind.
If you think my fire is just a reflection,
Then you’ve forgotten how a real flame glows....
I didn't steal a single spark of passion,
I’m just the one who felt the wind that blows.
So let them whisper through their bitter fences,
And let them trade their lies for hollow gold.
My voice is mine....unfiltered and defiant....
A story that no machine has ever told.
The ink is wet with life, not just logic,
The songs are born of grit and honest bone....
You can try to claim the garden that I’ve tended,
But the harvest is mine...and mine alone....
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 4:20 AM UTC
They scan the page for digital footprints,
Searching for a ghost inside the gears,
Claiming every rhythm is a program
And every drop of salt is plastic tears.
But code don't know the way a heartbeat stutters,
And silicon can't feel the bite of cold.....
They’re staring at the lightning I’ve captured
While trying to claim the thunder has been sold.
To the skeptics and the kings of hollow rumors....
My spirit wasn't built by "search and find."
You can't "generate" the scars I’ve lived through,
Or "copy-paste" the hallways of my mind.
If you think my fire is just a reflection,
Then you’ve forgotten how a real flame glows....
I didn't steal a single spark of passion,
I’m just the one who felt the wind that blows.
So let them whisper through their bitter fences,
And let them trade their lies for hollow gold.
My voice is mine....unfiltered and defiant....
A story that no machine has ever told.
The ink is wet with life, not just logic,
The songs are born of grit and honest bone....
You can try to claim the garden that I’ve tended,
But the harvest is mine...and mine alone....
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
