There are static lines running through the bone,
A private frequency we survived alone.
The hands at the throat, the father’s rage,
The shadows we carried from age to age—
Now framed in a lens, now cut to a scene, T
ransmuted to light on a glowing screen.
I take the fever, the silent tear,
The heavy weight of inherited fear,
And layout the script, direct the frame,
Giving a voice to the quiet shame.
On YouTube streams or a cinema wall,
I project the madness to make it small.
What lived in the dark as an endless night
Is broadcast now in the studio light.
No longer a victim to what was done,
I control the edit, the tape, the run.
For every secret that tried to break me,
Is turned into art for the world to see.
It’s televised now—the raw, the real,
A way to release, a way to heal. F
rom family blood to the public eye,
I stream the truth so it doesn\'t die.