Lyric

Morrow. Quick check-in

Output consistent

Reach limited

Limited by what?

White light buzzing at a quarter to six

Keys in my pocket, three problems to fix

One called in, one called out

Phone starts ringing before I clock out

Shelves stay full, numbers climb

I make it work while I’m selling my time

Every red line turns the right way—

Everywhere I never wanted to stay

They call it stable. Stable for who?

The place keeps moving. I get moved too

I keep their morning running on time

Then beg the night to give me back mine

You’re doing great

Try better balance

With whose time?

Count the hours

Count the sales

Count the views that never came

Count the output

Count the reach

Never count what it became

Out of rotation, still I rotate

Turning lost hours into something I make

You count the clicks, I count what it takes—

Out of rotation, still wide awake

I give them the day, but the night knows my name

I build it, I break it, I build it again

You call it wasted motion, circling the same—

Out of rotation, still in the frame

Twenty years dancing alone in a room

No lens watching, no promise of soon

My body said things I could never explain

Turned every pressure to rhythm and shape

I never needed a stadium light

Just one face moving in time with mine

One person catching the shift in the air—

That was enough when somebody was there

Now worlds come crowded behind my eyes

Cities, machines, impossible skies

I cut every frame when the shift is done

Build another moon before morning comes

Six months buried in a two-minute screen—

Eight little views. What does that mean?

The feed never judged if the work had worth—

It chose who was allowed to meet the work

Don’t take it personally

It’s only data

Then why does data decide who gets seen?

Count the missed calls

Count the crates

Count the worlds I build too late

Count the pings

Count the plays

Tell me which one names my days

Out of rotation, still I rotate

You count the clicks, I count what it takes

I give them the day, but the night knows my name—

Out of rotation, still in the frame

Maybe make it shorter

Maybe make it simpler

Maybe make it more relatable

More relatable to who?

Your audience

You haven’t shown me to one

If one person is enough

Why do you keep checking the numbers?

Phone face down, then face up again

Said I was done checking—checked at ten

Feed stayed empty, plates got full

Stress ate first, then I ate too

One face mattered. I still refreshed

Put the phone down. Picked it up next

Forty-two, still building after dark

Not because I’m brave—because it won’t stop

World after world keeps forcing its way

I make what I can before losing the shape

No grand conclusion, no clean escape—

The phone starts ringing. I finish the frame

Out of rotation, still I rotate

Turning lost hours into something I make

You count the clicks, I count what it takes—

Out of rotation, still wide awake

I give them the day, but the night knows my name

I build it, I break it, I build it again

You call it wasted motion, circling the same—

Out of rotation, still in the frame

One shadow moves when the chorus comes in

Four bars together, both fallen stiff and those caught in the spin

Then the shadow is gone. White lights remain

I miss one more call. I start dancing again

You’re going in circles

I know

Complaint unresolved

It wasn’t a complaint