Part I: The Throne of Chains
You’ve built a throne from rusted chains,
Demanding blood for ancient stains.
They didn’t do it? Doesn’t matter.
Their peace is just a thing to shatter.
You wear your trauma like a crown,
To keep the \"guilty\" kneeling down.
\"You owe me,\" is the holy rite,
That justifies your venom’s bite.
Inherited sin is your favorite tool,
The vengeful god, the bitter fool.
Force their knees into the dirt,
Until they’re mirrored in your hurt.
Keep stacking bricks of cold disdain,
To build a kingdom out of pain.
You call it justice, call it right,
To turn the world away from light.
But as you watch the dominos fall,
And shadows stretch across the wall,
Remember as the bridges burn:
It’s finally your hollow turn.
You won the war, you claimed the prize,
Of empty hearts and darkened skies.
A master of a graveyard floor;
Exactly what you hated more.
Part II: The Weaponized Wound
You don’t wear wounds;
you weaponize them.
Call it justice, call it history,
call it \"what I’m owed.\"
But all I see is a fist
clenched around a debt
no one ever signed.
You stare at strangers
like they’re guilty by breath alone,
demand apologies
for crimes you can’t even name;
then crown yourself righteous
when they refuse to kneel.
You don’t want repair.
You want confirmation.
You want the world to break its spine
to fit the shape of your bitterness,
to nod along while you burn the house
and call the smoke proof.
Your hatred isn’t principled;
it’s convenient.
A ladder built from blame,
each rung another human
reduced to a lesson
you never intended to learn.
You say they owe you,
but what you mean is:
\"I deserve to be above you.\"
And every forced confession,
every coerced agreement,
every silence you mistake for respect
feeds the lie that you’re winning.
Look around.
That echo you call power?
That’s isolation learning your name.
That domino line of justified cruelty?
You tipped it yourself;
and now you’re shocked
it won’t stop falling.
You confuse dominance with strength,
resentment with clarity,
rage with resolve.
But supremacy is a hunger
that eats its host first,
and entitlement always starves
in the end.
So keep demanding.
Keep pointing.
Keep rewriting the past
until everyone else is the villain.
Just don’t pretend you’re building a future;
you’re only perfecting the art
of standing alone in the ruins,
still insisting you were right.