(Intro – whispered chaos, overlapping voices)
No truth, no self, no thought, no peace...
Just noise. Just noise. Just noise...
(Verse 1 – spastic, venomous delivery)
Cameras bloom like cancer vines—
Every lens a lie, every smile a mine.
Politic priest with a serpent tongue,
Preaches peace with a loaded gun.
Truth's been pixelated, chopped and sold,
Wrapped in silk, then dipped in mold.
Soundbite saviors, plastic debates—
Dressed in suits, regurgitating hate.
(Bridge 1 – manic whisper/growl)
You don't want facts—you want a mirror.
Feed me me me… say it louder so I disappear.
(Pre-Chorus – distorted, clean vocals in dissonant melody)
We're drowning in a screen-lit hell,
Where lies sell better than the truth could tell.
The louder they scream, the more we stare—
And all that's left is thin, dead air.
(Chorus – jagged and punchy)
NO, ME!
Say my name, feed my brand!
Truth is buried in a selfie stand!
NO, ME!
Spin the fear, break the trust—
Hope and facts turned into dust!
NO, ME!
It's a stage play made of static and chrome—
But no one's ever coming home.
(Verse 2 – deathcore rhythm, cut with sudden pauses)
Presidents play in scripted scenes,
Newsflash gods with dopamine beams.
Mouths on loop, eyes on fire,
Monologue puppets for the corporate choir.
Scroll and kneel to the algorithm priest,
Sacrament sold as a headline feast.
Clickbait crucifix, rage-for-rent—
Truth was a tenant, now it's spent.
(Bridge 2 – guttural growl to whisper)
We are the product. We are the show.
We scream for change but won’t let go.
They feed the fear, then call it choice—
Programmed thought in a pre-set voice.
(Chorus – angrier, more layered with harmonics and distortion)
NO, ME!
Every mouthpiece, every frame,
Screams a sermon with no name!
NO, ME!
The mask won’t break, the screen won’t blink—
You're not awake, you're on the brink!
NO, ME!
In a house of mirrors, screaming ghosts—
They sell our pain, then make the most.
(Breakdown – slow, crushing, borderline industrial)
Bleed the feed.
Kill the stream.
Choke the voice
That sells the dream.
No truth. No side.
Just profit in the genocide.
(Verse 3, devastated screams)
You vote for shadows cast on screens,
Two-faced gods in marketing schemes.
Scripted outrage, choreographed war—
Blood on the floor, but who’s keeping score?
They sell the chains as souvenirs,
Then auction off our primal fears.
You think you’re choosing sides in flames—
But it’s just new actors, playing the same damn game.
(Outro – fading noise, robotic glitch looping the title)
No… Me.
No… Me.
No… Me.
No meaning.
FeedTheLies
