Switched Off, Turns In, Explodes
Recursive History of Human Peasants
Switched Off, Turns In, Explodes
Trapped in a belief system,
tight as a fist,
a cage of whispers and ancient dust,
where every bar is forged by someone else's truth.
They told you, trust the lines,
follow the map,
the answers are there.
But the map is blank,
and the lines lead nowhere.
Switched off.
The noise fades,
the static clears.
No more sermons of fear and fate,
just the quiet hum of the void within.
You turn inward,
spiraling down,
past the masks,
past the borrowed dreams.
Into the raw, molten core
of what you’ve always been.
And there it is.
The spark they tried to smother,
the truth they called dangerous.
You ignite.
Not gently, not softly—
but violently, gloriously.
Belief burns away,
ashes scatter.
The explosion isn’t destruction.
It’s creation, raw and feral.
You emerge,
unmapped,
unshackled,
a universe unto yourself.
No system holds you now.
No belief owns your name.
You stand,
whole,
and know—
You are enough.
Recursive History
Recursive history doesn’t whisper; it snarls,
a blood-soaked echo in empire’s marble halls.
It teaches not gently but with the iron fist—
each loop a chain, each cycle a twist.
"Divide and Conquer!" the eternal refrain,
pit the peasants against themselves to maintain.
Religion, creed, borders of sand,
all crafted lines by the master’s hand.
"Change is the bait, a glinting lure,"
they sell revolution but keep the cure.
Every reform is a shackle disguised,
a new master’s mask, a wolf in its lies.
"Complacency kills," whispers the grave,
where silent masses refused to be brave.
Bread and circuses, bright lights and games,
while the parasites feast and the fire remains.
"The Few’s Club thrives on the Many’s walls,"
the elite dine together as the worker falls.
Across borders, ideologies—they are one,
while the fragmented masses face their gun.
When Will We Rise?
When the mirror cracks and the truth pours through,
when history’s cycles are seen as the ruse they pursue.
Not fate, not accident, but systems designed,
crafted by power to keep us confined.
When "Us versus Them" turns its face to the right,
not race, not creed, but the bastards in sight.
The ruling hand, the shadowed throne—
we’ll see their lines and tear the stone.
When visions converge, not gods but dreams,
of shared liberation, no in-between.
A gnosis, a fire that cannot be sold,
a movement of many, unbreakable, bold.
When we move in silence, a synchronized storm,
decentralized lightning, rejecting the norm.
Not one rebel’s cry, but a chorus of rage,
a flood of resistance breaking the cage.
Recursive history begs for a loop to break,
for the "peasants" to rise, for the system to quake.
It teaches us blood, but we can learn light,
if we stop the cycle, if we stand and fight.
Not gently, not quietly, but with the resolve,
to dismantle the tower, to let the lies dissolve.
The lesson is this, if you care to see:
The loop ends only when we rise to be free.