wifi spirits

Lyrics

The drum don’t sound the same through speakers,
Digital feathers, clipped by preachers,
They sold our songs in museum glass,
Called it “history,” buried the past.
Grandmother’s tongue turned dust in the throat,
Now we text prayers we never spoke,
Smoke signals lost in Wi-Fi skies,
Ancestors buffering, pixel eyes.
Still I dance though the blood feels thin,
Heartbeat echo of where I’ve been—
A war cry trapped in modern skin.

Reservation Static

They built fences around our names,
Tagged our spirits, numbered our pain,
Taught us shame in a classroom tone,
While standing on bones we call our own.
Identity stretched like stolen land,
Language slipping from open hands,
Every syllable tastes like theft,
Every mirror shows what’s left.
But rage still hums beneath the skin,
Like powwow drums in a garbage bin—
You can bury roots, they grow again.

Fragment Syntax

Chop it—heritage hemorrhage, severed from the origin,
Rhythmic distortion, ancestral voices in the whirlwind,
Bloodline glitchin’, stitched in synthetic conditions,
Tradition twisted in religious collision.
Split personality—tribal or global?
Identity volatile, cultural postal,
Stamped and shipped to a place unknown,
Where the past gets taxed and the future’s loaned.
Fast tongue lashin’—truth in fractions,
Spiritual traction lost in captions,
But beneath the madness, patterns align—
DNA screaming in double-time.

Bone Choir

My bones remember songs
My mouth cannot shape—
A language of wind
Folded into marrow.
The earth hums softly
But I do not understand—
I was born too late
Or too erased.
My blood is an archive
With missing pages,
And I press my ear
To silence
Hoping
It sings me back.

Rust Crown

Crown made of rust, passed down in lies,
King of a kingdom that slowly dies,
History twisted, fed through a straw,
Now I choke on truth I never saw.
Streetlight prophets with broken teeth,
Selling old gods with a new belief,
I tried to find roots in a bottle of pain,
But the past don’t grow in acid rain.
Now I stand with a head full of ghosts,
Trying to remember what matters most—
But the mirror just laughs, says “you’re too late.”

Carnival Bloodline

Step right up—see the culture decay,
Watch tradition get freaked on display,
Jugglin’ memories, droppin’ names,
Face paint hides generational pain.
Funhouse mirrors bend who we are,
Turn sacred scars into cheap bazaar,
Laugh tracks echo where drums once hit,
Now identity’s just a costume that fits.
Underneath the mask I scream,
But it comes out stitched like a bad dream—
A sideshow soul with no main scene.

Colonial Ghosts

They rewrote the map with a blade and a Bible,
Turned genocide into something “survival,”
Erased whole nations with ink and decree,
Then sold back the ashes as “history.”
Bloodlines fractured by systemic design,
Cultural death dressed up as “divine,”
You think it’s the past? It’s alive in your food,
In your schools, in your laws, in your neighborhood mood.
This ain’t lost heritage—it’s stolen wealth,
Extracted identity, sold for health,
And the ghosts of the conquered still scream in the night—
But the system profits off silencing their fight.

36 Chambers of Ancestors

Enter the chamber where the old gods wait,
Shaolin spirits sealed by fate,
Scrolls burned down, wisdom gone,
Now we recite what we never learned from.
Sword style—cut through illusion,
Cultural fusion or cultural confusion?
Build with the pieces they left behind,
Cipher the truth in a fractured mind.
Knowledge of self got lost in the trade,
Now we hustle identity in the shade—
But the clan still rises from dust and pain.

Check the System

Check the system—it’s rigged from birth,
They stole your name, then sold your worth,
Took your roots, paved ‘em with streets,
Now you hustle culture just to eat.
They don’t teach you where you from,
Just how to load and fire a gun,
Divide and conquer—that’s the play,
Keep you lost so you never say—
“Hey, that land? That history? That mine.”
Nah, they’d rather keep you blind—
Another pawn in a long-ass crime.

Mama Never Told Me

Mama never told me where we came from,
Just that the world wasn’t safe for her son,
Said “pray hard,” but I ain’t know who to,
God got a thousand names—I never knew true.
I look in the mirror, see pain in my face,
But don’t know the roots of this inherited weight,
Was we kings? Was we lost? Was we broken in chains?
All I know is I’m carryin’ invisible pain.
And I cry for a past I never could claim,
For a culture erased but still in my veins—
Tryna love who I am with a missing last name.