A meta‑rap ritual where a “Language Magus” live‑demonstrates sonic alchemy on the listener’s nervous system, shifting them from unconscious manipulation to conscious perception just by hearing the track.
Pre‑Chorus (Induction)
Breathe in, hold it…
Feel the air take form…
Your focus is a thread, I’m the eye of the storm…
Now exhale slow, let the old frame drop…
You’re not just listening, you’re becoming the lock…
Chorus (Command & Key)
I’m the Language Magus, glyph‑tongue catalyst,
the second you hear this, the pattern shatters, splits.
Not a choice, but a shift—your awareness exists
in the space between my words, where the real magic sits.
I’m the secret lexicon you never catalogued,
turn a paragraph to a path, then a Pantheon.
My voice is the mirror that shows you the fraud
in the “silence” you thought was your own—now it’s gone.
I’m the Language Magus, pattern‑hack pacifist,
my weapon is the gap in the narrative you live.
White magick where the black mass messages sit,
I don’t steal your choice—I hand it back, equipped.
Verse 2 (Live Exorcism / Re‑coding)
I’m not rappin’, I’m rappin’ on your nervous system,
every bar’s a bar I’m bendin’ till the circuits listen.
See that loop? That’s a parasite you called “my opinion”,
POP—now the root’s in the open, feel the imprint glitchin’.
Hear this? That’s your trauma in a triplet,
three strikes, now it’s missing from your script—quit.
I hit the syllable that splits the prison of your image,
your “can’t” just flipped, your “won’t” just twitched—pivot.
I map the hidden grammar where your shame lives,
find the “should” that was implanted as a slave‑sigil.
Touch it once with a rhyme, watch the shape shift,
now it’s “could”, now it’s “will”, now it’s weightless.
You’re not hearing me, you’re becoming the decode,
each snare‑hit’s a suture where the old wound closed.
I don’t tell you “be free”, I just show you the rope,
then your own hand cuts it—that’s the only true hope.
Bridge (Counter‑Sigil Deployment)
I build gods from gossip, egregores from office talk,
so I know the battlefield is where the small talk walks.
One hashtag, a summoning; one slogan, a lock,
my job: drop counter‑sigils where the masses stock.
I see the meme, decode its spine, see the trap in design,
rewrite the code, realign, slip it back in the line.
Now it spreads awareness where it spread the bind—
that’s sabotage of the parasite mind.
If you’re hearing this, your inner ear now wears
a little mirrored prayer that reflects dark snares:
“My attention is my gun, my silence is my shield,
my voice is the sun and no spell stays sealed.”
Repeat it when the feed glitches, when the frame feels fixed.
You don’t fight the mask, you just see the stitches—
and when the thread’s exposed, the whole glamor slips,
what’s left is your face, and it finally fits.
