Forge Song

Sit back, clench your jaw, and let me slide this blade in slow.
This isn’t just for you.
It’s for every quiet lion walking a fluorescent-lit cage.
For every soul that aches under the weight of almost.

You were not born for beige.
Not for nodding while your bones scream,
not for shrinking until you're palatable,
employable,
forgettable.

You were born electric—
wired for wonder,
flawed like a storm,
feral with purpose.

But comfort came clothed in praise.
It said:
"Be grateful."
It said:
"This is good enough."
It said:
“You’ve made it.”

And slowly—mercifully—you slept.
With soft sheets of salary.
And lullabies made of likes.
And a daily drip-feed of almost.

But some part of you
the part with blood under its fingernails—
still thrashes.
Still remembers the heat.
Still hears the call.

So here’s your wake-up, here’s your velvet blade:

Comfort is a cage that whispers like a lullaby.
Freedom is a forge that screams like truth.

You don’t get to be both safe and sovereign.
You don’t get to burn bright and never feel the heat.
You don’t get to matter without making something bleed.

So break something.
Get honest enough to make your voice shake.
Love harder than is logical.
Move your body like it belongs to the earth again.
Create something that might not work.
And live like your sons and daughters are watching—
because they are.

This world will not remember your titles.
But it will echo with your courage.
Your fire.
Your refusal to go quietly.

So rise, builder of meaning.
Forge-runner.
Truth-bearer.

The cage is open.
The fire is waiting.
And your name is still echoing through the forge.

Now breathe.
Let it hurt.
Then go light something up.