Lion's Den

Red light.

Eyes on.

Don't look up.

[low static]

They've been watching

the whole time.

Keep smiling.

Don't give them

what they want.

[pause]

Too late.

They built the room before I entered,

put the cameras in the walls.

Gave me choices drawn in pencil,

then decided where I'd fall.

Every answer gets a headline.

Every silence gets a name.

They don't need to know the story—

they just need someone to blame.

Pretty faces in the balcony,

safe behind the glass.

Betting which of us will break first,

waiting for the moment to laugh.

They dress cruelty up like theatre,

put a spotlight on the pain.

And if you don't fit the picture—

they'll cut you into frame.

Lights are coming on.

Hear them counting.

Feel the room close in.

They already wrote the ending—

I just don't know who I am in it.

WELCOME TO THE LION'S DEN.

Where they frame you,

then they blame you,

just to watch you come apart.

Tie the wires to your body,

pull the strings and call it art.

Let them watch you through the glass wall.

Let them cheer when something bends.

Everybody loves a spectacle—

welcome to the lion's den.

Frame me.

Game me.

Pull me down.

[glitched voices]

Smile.

Smile.

Don't disappoint the crowd.

They'll give you just enough to struggle,

never enough to leave the floor.

Put the ladder within reach—

then raise it twenty feet more.

Every dream becomes a product.

Every failure gets replayed.

Every wound becomes a story

somebody else gets paid.

They love rebels when they're useful.

They love anger they can sell.

Give the freak another spotlight.

Make the breakdown photograph well.

Keep the kings above the cameras.

Keep the hungry down below.

Make us tear apart each other—

so we never watch the show.

Now I see the wires.

Now I see the hands.

Every move I thought was mine—

was another move they planned.

WELCOME TO THE LION'S DEN.

Where they frame you,

then they blame you,

just to watch you come apart.

Tie the wires to your body,

pull the strings and call it art.

Let them watch you through the glass wall.

Let them cheer when something bends.

Everybody loves a spectacle—

welcome to the lion's den.

[fragmented voices through static]

Again.

Do it again.

We didn't get it.

[pause]

Break a little cleaner.

Pull the string.

Watch me dance.

Give me hope.

Take it back.

Make me crawl.

Make me beg.

Put the target

on my head.

You want a freak?

Then make one.

You need a villain?

Name one.

Need somebody

for your story?

[Shouted]

PUT MY FACE

ON EVERY SCREEN.

You built the cage.

You wrote the rules.

You picked the winners.

Raised the fools.

You own the lights.

You own the crowd.

Then ask us—

WHY WE'RE SCREAMING NOW?

WELCOME TO THE LION'S DEN.

Where they frame you,

then they blame you,

just to watch you come apart.

Tie the wires to your body,

pull the strings and call it art.

Cover everything in diamonds.

Make captivity look rich.

Everybody loves the puppet—

till the puppet cuts the strings.

They keep telling us we're lucky.

They keep saying, "Know your place."

While the ones above the arena

never have to show their face.

Let them keep their golden table.

Let them keep their perfect lens.

If the world needs us beneath them—

let it choke inside its den.

Frame me.

Game me.

Watch me fall.

Shape me.

Rate me.

Sell it all.

Pull the strings.

Feed the crowd.

Keep me small—

to keep them proud.

But puppets see the strings eventually.

And toys remember every hand.

Every monster you've been watching

was constructed where you stand.

You can manufacture villains.

You can cut us into shape.

You can build your little theatre—

[instrumentation rising]

but eventually

the freaks escape.

[Shouted]

CUT THE STRINGS.

Red light.

Eyes on.

[static]

Nothing left

to watch.