An Experiment in Noise by Ken Arkind Lyrics
"This not a heart,
it`s a volume knob.
You turn it one way when you wish to scream,
you turn it one way when you wish to whisper.
It is a gift,
and it carries much weight with it,
your chest can feel as heavy as an ocean,
there is more than enough silence beneath the surface for you to drown in.
Be careful,
it is a weapon and can hurt people,
their ears will not be ready for your anthem.
Speak with purpose,
sound without shape is static,
and you were not born a dead channel.
You,
were born screaming.
Does music belong to the instrument or the earrs that hear it?
If one receives a gift it belongs to them not the gift giver,
so when you tell someone your name,
does it still belong to you?
Branches
Violin strings,
The wind
A bow.
Music notes
Hummingbirds,
Ear drums
Flowers.
Epithets
Shotguns,
Humans
Targets.
This is not a heart,
it`s a volume knob.
That makes your veins wires.
If your veins are wires,
then your limbs are speakers,
if your limbs are speakers,
then movement is a song.
Running,
Song.
Dancing,
Song.
Kissing,
Song.
Fighting,
Song.
So choir many many choirs,
holy holy little fists.
Leave the world dancing in your headphone dust,
drenched in speaker sweat,
covered in eardrum graffiti,
and invite them all into your sonic temple.
alone.
you.
are.
just.
one.
word.
Together you make a sentence.
Together you have a purpose.
This is not a heart,
it`s a volume knob.
With it you can sing (many many) songs.
Joy.
Acceptance.
Humility.
Forgiveness.
Fear.
Loneliness.
Pride.
Hate.
Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love.
Remember that refrain when the waves come, (they will come)
they will try and mute you,
they will try and drown you with their,
talking
talking
talking
talking
talking.
They will try to sharpen your bones.
They will try to sharpen your shoulder blades.
They will try to convince you to cleave off your wings,
by shrugging from the weight of them.
That the burden is too much to carry,
That you deserve silence.
They will try and deafen you,
They will try and deafen you by firing their,
guns
guns
guns
guns
guns.
Put your guns away our weapon`s in our chests.
Your body is an arsenal.
Your gut a foxhole.
Your lungs magazines. (to carry the ammunition of your breath)
Your throat is a barrel.
Your tongue is a trigger.
Click against the war drum of your jaw,
and echo the sound:
No.
No.
You will not touch me.
No.
You will not call me that word.
No.
I will not move.
A bullet cannot hurt an ocean,
and waves are just static atop its depth.
You are louder than this. (bloody experiment in noise)
A transmission,
sent straight through bullhorn of tongue,
by the soapbox that got lodged in your throat,
on the day they told you to swallow your pride.
You are louder than this.
You are ruckus.
You are opus.
So shatter the silence and proclaim yourself,
turn up your melody so loudly that they never forget,
and hand the world your name,
like it was a gift.
Spine,
straighter than a ship's mast.
Chin,
held higher than full sails.
Static,
crashing like waves breaking against your bow.
The bullets of their lips firing,
but missing,
with every,
shot."
it`s a volume knob.
You turn it one way when you wish to scream,
you turn it one way when you wish to whisper.
It is a gift,
and it carries much weight with it,
your chest can feel as heavy as an ocean,
there is more than enough silence beneath the surface for you to drown in.
Be careful,
it is a weapon and can hurt people,
their ears will not be ready for your anthem.
Speak with purpose,
sound without shape is static,
and you were not born a dead channel.
You,
were born screaming.
Does music belong to the instrument or the earrs that hear it?
If one receives a gift it belongs to them not the gift giver,
so when you tell someone your name,
does it still belong to you?
Branches
Violin strings,
The wind
A bow.
Music notes
Hummingbirds,
Ear drums
Flowers.
Epithets
Shotguns,
Humans
Targets.
This is not a heart,
it`s a volume knob.
That makes your veins wires.
If your veins are wires,
then your limbs are speakers,
if your limbs are speakers,
then movement is a song.
Running,
Song.
Dancing,
Song.
Kissing,
Song.
Fighting,
Song.
So choir many many choirs,
holy holy little fists.
Leave the world dancing in your headphone dust,
drenched in speaker sweat,
covered in eardrum graffiti,
and invite them all into your sonic temple.
alone.
you.
are.
just.
one.
word.
Together you make a sentence.
Together you have a purpose.
This is not a heart,
it`s a volume knob.
With it you can sing (many many) songs.
Joy.
Acceptance.
Humility.
Forgiveness.
Fear.
Loneliness.
Pride.
Hate.
Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love.
Remember that refrain when the waves come, (they will come)
they will try and mute you,
they will try and drown you with their,
talking
talking
talking
talking
talking.
They will try to sharpen your bones.
They will try to sharpen your shoulder blades.
They will try to convince you to cleave off your wings,
by shrugging from the weight of them.
That the burden is too much to carry,
That you deserve silence.
They will try and deafen you,
They will try and deafen you by firing their,
guns
guns
guns
guns
guns.
Put your guns away our weapon`s in our chests.
Your body is an arsenal.
Your gut a foxhole.
Your lungs magazines. (to carry the ammunition of your breath)
Your throat is a barrel.
Your tongue is a trigger.
Click against the war drum of your jaw,
and echo the sound:
No.
No.
You will not touch me.
No.
You will not call me that word.
No.
I will not move.
A bullet cannot hurt an ocean,
and waves are just static atop its depth.
You are louder than this. (bloody experiment in noise)
A transmission,
sent straight through bullhorn of tongue,
by the soapbox that got lodged in your throat,
on the day they told you to swallow your pride.
You are louder than this.
You are ruckus.
You are opus.
So shatter the silence and proclaim yourself,
turn up your melody so loudly that they never forget,
and hand the world your name,
like it was a gift.
Spine,
straighter than a ship's mast.
Chin,
held higher than full sails.
Static,
crashing like waves breaking against your bow.
The bullets of their lips firing,
but missing,
with every,
shot."