The Architecture of Collapse


Title: “Saffron Tide , Rusted Chains”

Born of salt and revolution, now they sell us fake solutions,  
Slogans louder than the sea, drownin' out our constitution.  
Caste lines drawn in digital code,  
While heritage gets bulldozed for a villa abode.  

They point fingers — “Urban Naxal,” that’s the tag,  
When you question the state, they plant a red flag.  
But we ain't blind in this paradise zone,  
We see the cracks in the Portuguese stone.
 
🔥 Burn the silence, raise your voice,  
We were born to fight, not born by choice.  
Rusted chains in the coastal breeze,  
Now we scream truth through the casuarina trees.  

They're rewriting our stories, pixel by pixel,  
Erasing our past with the swing of a sickle.  
“We'll wipe the culture,” the CM declared,  
But whose culture, bro? The people are scared.  

Tourists pour in, but the locals drain out,  
Concrete dreams on the ancestral route.  
Land grabs, scams, backdoor deals,  
But they bless it all in Sunday zeal.

We’re not your postcard, not your theme park show,  
We’re the voice in the cracks where the mangroves grow.

⚡ Goa, don't sleep — you're the frontline flame,  
Between the saints and the suits, it’s a deadly game.  
Turn the bass up, break their disguise,  
Truth don’t bow to saffron lies.
  
Freedom ain’t a relic you lock in the fort,  
It's the drumbeat on streets when the people retort.  
This ain’t just about Left or Right,  
It’s fishermen’s rights, and women’s fight.  

Religious smoke screens, political thrillers,  
Meanwhile they party with the drug trade killers.  
But the youth ain’t fooled by the hashtag war,  
We're planting flags that mean way more.

Whispers of the old town...  
Monsoon blood on the battleground...  
We are not your silent crowd...  
WE. WON'T. BACK. DOWN.

🔥 Goa, don’t sleep — wake up and rise,  
From the Carnival mask to the courtroom lies.  
Steel your spirit, hold the line,  
This ain’t the end — it’s reclaim time.

From the river to the ridge, from the spice to the sand,  
We ain’t giving up — this is our land.  
Not red, not saffron, not white-washed pain...  
We're the voice of the monsoon — loud like rain.



Saffron Tide, Rusted Chains

Title: Ghosts of the Morning


I gave ‘em everything…
And still, they asked for more.


Woke up on a mattress full of headlines and regrets
Dead friends in my inbox, newsfeed cigarettes
They said fight like a lion, die with pride on your breath
But nobody taught me what to do with what’s left

I'm the mural in the alley, the slogan they spray
But I can’t look in the mirror when the rage melts away
I gave ‘em poetry and protest, the light and decay
But this body ain't a battleground — it's begging to pray


I see ghosts of the morning / Marching out my chest
Breathe in silence like a warning / This war don't let me rest
I gave it all — my voice, my skin / But I don’t know who I’ve been
Am I the fight or just the fire that fades within?


I been sleepin' in my shoes, dreams heavy with names
Tryna carry the dead, but I’m breaking my frame
They said “You’re the future,” but I feel like the flame
That lights up the sky just before it gets tame

I ain't fearless, just numb, with a pen in my fist
Every lyric’s a grave I refuse to resist
Yeah, they love you when you bleed but forget when you drift
Now I'm yelling in the dark, just to know I exist

I see ghosts of the morning / Marching out my chest
Breathe in silence like a warning / This war don't let me rest
I gave it all — my voice, my skin / But I don’t know who I’ve been
Am I the fight or just the fire that fades within?
I used to scream for the crowd
Now I whisper for the ones who never made it back
We are not broken
Just burnt —
But still burning.


Just ashes in the wind…
Still trying to rise.
Still trying to rise.

Ghosts of the Morning

Title: Concrete Bloom

I was planted, not placed.
Buried, not broken.
Watered by silence, fed by smoke —
And still, I bloomed in the choke.

Cracks in the pavement spell out my name,
Ghost of the riot, still playing the game.
No banner in hand, just scars in my chest,
No slogans now — just breath and unrest.

They wanted a martyr, I gave ’em a map,
Showed ‘em the roots that twist through the trap.
I don't carry flags, I carry the weight,
Of every closed door they said was fate.

Beneath every statue, there’s soil that groans,
Under each anthem, a field of bones.
But I walk like a whisper through concrete veins,
A bloom with a pulse and rust in my chains.

From concrete bloom, I rise in rust,
Dirt in my lungs, but I breathe in trust.
The light don’t scream — it hums through pain,
I ain’t a rebel, I’m the seed in the rain.

No loud hallelujah, no marching drum —
Just a heartbeat soft as the morning sun.

If you’re looking for heroes, look beneath dust —
Where silence grows loud, and bloom we must.


I don’t chase thrones, I decompose kings,
Make mulch from their myths, plant future things.
This ain’t revolution — this is rotation,
This is healing dressed like detonation.

I sip from the cup of forgotten gods,
Mix holy with hurt in lightning rods.
I’m the prayer they never wrote down right,
Tattooed in ash, spitting verses at night.

Power don’t scream now — it sits in the soil,
Brewing its vengeance in ritual coil.
I'm not broken — I’m breaking the mold,
With hands full of roots and fire gone cold.

I wasn’t meant to make it.
But here I stand —
not whole,
not healed,
but growing anyway.

They built walls —
I found light through the cracks.
They buried us —
and called it peace.

We are the flowers in the machine.
The softness they couldn’t kill.


From concrete bloom, I rise in rust,
No crown, no throne — just earth and dust.

I ain’t your symbol, I ain’t your saint,
I’m the shadow behind your restraint.

No loud hallelujah, no marching drum —
Just a fire that whispers, “we’re not done.”

And if you're lost in the ruins, looking for proof—

Check the bloom.

Check the bloom.

We’re still here.
Still growing.
Still true.

Concrete Bloom

Title: Dreams With Teeth

We don’t pray no more —
we code.

We don’t sleep —
we reboot.

Our dreams don’t float.
They bite.

I dream like a riot with rhythm,
Teeth sharp from the silence I’m given.
Wired on purpose, battery breath,
Signal in the static, I glitch through death.

No throne, no gods — just neon bones,
Truth in the cracks of collapsing phones.
They sold me tomorrow in banner ads,
But I bought my future back in scraps.

I don’t chant — I encrypt.
Every verse, a microchip.
Every bar, a backdoor hack,
Every line: reclaim, attack.

These dreams got teeth, they snarl and feed,
Not soft, not sweet — just born to bleed.

Hope ain’t clean, it’s rust and rage,
It’s code in chains, it’s burning sage.

Bite down. Plug in. Don't sleep too deep—
Even in silence...
the dreamers speak.

They wanted prophets who whisper prayers,
Not ghosts who climb electric stairs.
But I rise in the surge of the afterworld,
Braided data in a rebel curl.

My dreams ain’t velvet. They’re razored glass.
Cutting through timelines built to collapse.
I inhale firewalls, exhale smoke,
Bite down on futures they tried to choke.

I ain’t the future you forecasted,
I’m the echo your servers blasted.
A glitch in your empire’s neon grid —
Still dreaming wild... still dreaming big.

We bloom where the code breaks.
We howl where the light fades.

They tried to mute the signal...

But we became it.

We became it.

These dreams got teeth — they bite back truth,
Rewired rage with bulletproof roots.

I don’t kneel, I seed the sky,
With black box wings, and wires that cry.

Bite down. Plug in. Don’t blink, don’t sleep.
The future is feral...

And we’re the teeth.

We don’t wait for utopia.
We upload it.
We bleed into the machine,

And make it dream us back.

Dreams With Teeth

Title: The Sound Between the Stones

I didn’t flinch when the glass hit the ground
I studied the silence
like a map drawn in bruises


They built cathedrals out of war cries
I lit candles in the ruins,
whispered psalms to the smoke —
the sky don’t answer, but it listens.

I walked where echoes feared to follow,
picked prayers out of gravel
with fingers blistered from holding in
every word I never threw.


This is the sound between the stones
where the truth hums low in the bone
where the fight folds quiet into grace
and silence speaks with a burning face.

Let the noise pass like thunder’s breath
I’m the stillness that survives the wreck.


They thought I broke when I bowed my head —
nah, I was planting thunder.
Truth grows teeth underground.
Faith is a weapon carved in surrender.

I’ve lost gods, found ghosts,
prayed to mirrors, burned my throat
on the name I wasn’t given —
and still, I sang.


I’m not the war
I’m what waits after.
The page they tore
but couldn’t master.

I’m the breath between the bricks they threw —
a hymn, a hush,
a storm subdued.


This is the sound between the stones
a still fire, a sacred unknown
not rage, not rest — but something wide
that opens the sky from the inside.

Don’t mistake my silence for sleep.
I am not resting.
I am remembering.
And when I speak…
it won’t be with a mouth.
It’ll be with everything.

The Sound Between the Stones

In this gallery of ghosts,
Every silence is framed.
We walk past lives like exhibits...
‘Cause even dreams rot when you lock 'em away.

There’s a room where I said yes.
Another where I ran.
One with a child I never held
Another with a mic I never grabbed.

There’s a kiss that lived in theory,
A war I never fought,
There’s a version of me
That still believes in God...

And he’s humming in the corner —
but he’s out of tune and high,
Tuning a broken sitar
Under ultraviolet sky.

Do you feel it?
The echoes in the dome?
The whispers of a self
You’ll never call home.

This is the Museum!
Of what we never were!
Of fists that stayed pockets
Of screams that never stirred!

Hallways of heartbreak!
Glass-cased "Almost"s!
Truth turned vapor
And futures turned ghosts!

I saw my twin in the mirror — glitchin’ like a goddamn myth,
He said, “You traded gold for silence, now you’re rich with 'What if’s.”
Another me held protest signs, another sold the code,
Another one married the skyline and carved truth into stone.

Another self is laughing — barefoot in a field,
Another's just a number, part of someone else's deal.
So what’s the cost of choice when your voice still echoes?
In halls built of maybe, in time’s cracked ghettos.

Turn back the clocks.
Then smash them in slow motion.
Drown in the ink of unwritten devotion.
We are only the paths we never picked...
And the versions of us that didn’t exist.

This is the Museum!
Of what we never were!
Of fists that stayed pockets
Of screams that never stirred!

Hallways of heartbreak!
Glass-cased "Almost"s!
Truth turned vapor
And futures turned ghosts!

If you listen long enough,
you’ll hear yourself... leaving.

MUSEUM OF THINGS THAT NEVER HAPPENED

Title: The House That Bled

“They didn’t need a hammer to break the cross... just a mirror and enough time.”

They built the altar, gold and glass,
Then sold it out for likes and cash.
Velvet lies in sacred clothes,
Kissing kids beneath stained-glass windows.

They drained the wine and filled it sweet,
With syrup smiles and sin on repeat.
Sold the silence, broke the bells,
Lit the candles just to cover the smell.

They called it progress, they called it pride,
But the roots were bleeding on the inside.
Took the shepherd, clipped his tongue,
Said "love is law"—then burned the young.

This is the house that bled,
With sermons painted red.
Where mercy was the mask,
For knives behind the glass.

They said, “Be kind,” while tearing down the frame,
Compassion used like fire dressed in flame.
They broke the sacred, soft and slow—
Now the children don’t even know.

They marched in robes, then stripped 'em bare,
Turned the pulpit to a stage for despair.
Confession leaked, defiled, unseen—
Just hashtags praying on a screen.

Preach love, twist lust, mask greed,
Plant the poison where the flock still feeds.
Saints in shadow, sins on show,
A choir of wolves with voices low.

They softened steel, they blurred the lines,
Made truth a relic lost in time.
Made wrong a right with softer names,
Then lit the match and called it change.

You didn’t see the war because it wore a smile.
Didn’t hear the gunshots through the gospel file.
Didn’t know the end when they dimmed the flame,
And whispered, “It’s all love,” while feeding the shame.

Not with fire... but silence.
Not with chains... but guidance.
Not with hate... but hugs too tight,
They squeezed the sacred out of sight.

This is the house that bled,
With sermons painted red.
Where mercy was the mask,
For knives behind the glass.

They dressed decay in robes of gold,
Taught children things the prophets never told.
They broke the sacred, pixel by pixel—
Now the gods are gone, and the chains feel civil.

“Amen... amen... and so it ends.”

The House That Bled

Title: Borders & Games

Yeah…
Not every exile runs from war — some run toward the throne.
Systems crack when the quiet ones clone.
Listen.

(migrant)
I ain’t cross for freedom, I crossed for a scheme,
Suitcase full of silence, ambition and a dream.
Smiled in a language I barely could speak,
But charm don’t need subtitles when your target’s weak.

Found her at the bar, told her pain-made me deep,
Played the refugee card, sold her trauma in sheets.
Planted roots in her belly, now she tied to my name,
She ain’t know love could double as a paperwork game.

Now I’m in the system, got a bed and some bread,
Talkin’ “family values” with a voice in her head.
But soon as I’m stamped up and legal, I switch,
Fly a bride from my past while I ghost this chick.

Hearts as visas, truth’s in disguise,
Built an empire off taxpayer lies.
Love ain’t love when it’s part of a plan,
Whole nations shift from the work of one man.

Children born in the cracks of the law,
Feeding on systems they never saw.
One turns to hundreds, streets full of flame —
Welcome to the sequel of Borders & Games.

(citizen)
She thought he was magic, a soul on the run,
Now she’s raisin' a child while he’s raisin' a son —
With a woman back home, same faith, same face,
And a welfare check from her country’s grace.

He don’t work, he don’t grind,
But he know how to sign on the government line.
Five kids, three rooms, housing he don’t own,
But the taxes I pay built his comfortable home.

They multiply fast, with a mission inside,
Schoolbooks shift, even flags start to slide.
Law starts bending, culture’s in court,
And the land that gave freedom gets flipped in retort.

This ain’t about skin, this ain’t about creed,
It’s about those who plant chaos from seed.
Love is sacred — but when used as a tool,
Even nations fall prey to the game of the fool.

Hearts as visas, truth’s in disguise,
Built an empire off taxpayer lies.
Love ain’t love when it’s part of a plan,
Whole nations shift from the work of one man.

Children born in the cracks of the law,
Feeding on systems they never saw.
One turns to hundreds, streets full of flame —
Welcome to the sequel of Borders & Games.

Not every war’s with a gun or a bomb…
Sometimes it starts with a kiss and a calm.
Peace fades slow when the game goes long.
And the silence speaks loud when the systems are gone.

Borders & Games

 Title: "Import the Vote, Export the Soul"

They built gates, not homes.
Signed names on borders they never lived in.
We watched our tongue become an accent
in the place it was born.

Check the census — it ain’t numbers, it’s war math,
Votes on a spreadsheet, hearts in a body bag.
Import the crowd, sell 'em a dream,
Just long enough to pull the power scheme.

Puppets in suits, play God with the map,
Culture’s on fire while they dance on the ash.
One flag up, but ten tongues fight,
My hometown looks like a blurred rewrite.

This ain’t hate — it’s a funeral hymn,
For the soul of the land traded in for a win.
Now the values bend, the crime climbs walls,
When the hungry bite back, who do you call?

📣 They import the vote!
📣 They export the soul!
We lost our roots in a powerhole!
📣 They burn the books!
📣 And write in gold,
But the ink is blood, and the story's cold.

And we wonder...
Why the silence feels like sirens.

They built monuments for names we don’t know,
Erased grandmothers with glass condos.
Language fades like torn posters in rain —
We're foreigners in lanes we paved.

It ain’t the immigrant, it’s the plan behind,
A political chessboard, not humankind.
They drag 'em in, no tools, no aid,
Then point when survival becomes grenade.

Crime ain’t born, it’s cornered breath,
It’s hunger with nothing but options of theft.
But we all drown,
When justice is rigged and culture is clowned.

🎤 Don’t call it growth if it guts the seed!
🎤 Don’t call it change if the roots still bleed!
🎤 Don’t build your throne on a borrowed grave!
🎤 Don’t sell my soul just to make your wave!

📣 They import the vote!
📣 They export the soul!
The future sold in a backroom scroll.
📣 We burn our truth!
📣 To keep them whole!
But I won't forget what they stole.

I saw my home turn into a translation.
I speak, but it echoes back in dialects of damage.
And still — I remember.
I resist.

Import the Vote, Export the Soul

TITLE: "Broken Roots / Burning Truths"

They sold your soul with a barcode.
Your freedom's on a flash drive.
Truth ain't loud no more...
But I brought a mic.

They shattered tradition with glitter and screens,
Fed us fake gods in corporate machines,
Told mom to "get hers," leave the crib behind,
While the state raised your kids — now they don’t have spines.

Cults wear hashtags, preach like saints,
But silence you fast if you don’t think the same.
The family's dying, they cheer at the wake,
Truth’s on a leash, and love’s been replaced.

Governments preach with a smile and a plan,
While they bury your roots in digital sand.
We traded grandmas for grams and likes,
Sippin' poison, callin’ it life.

⚡We’re the ones with the broken roots,
Dancing on ashes in shiny boots.
They burned our truth with neon lies,
But we won’t go quiet — we amplify.
🔥*Ohh-oh-oh... No silence in this riot!*🔥
Ohh-oh-oh... This pain? We stylize it!

Feminism used to be fightin’ for rights,
Now it’s lipstick smoke and filtered lights.
"Torches of freedom"? Nah, it’s Marlboro dreams,
Selling lungs for pride in marketing schemes.

Masculinity’s toxic? Nah, that’s a trap,
You neuter the lions, then ask where they’re at.
Men are lost, told they’re wrong for breathin’,
While boys OD just to feel like they’re even.

Kids with pills, moms on reels,
Dads are ghosts, pain unhealed.
Lessons traded for agendas and feels,
Now we’re raising clay hearts with screens of steel.

⚡We’re the ones with the broken roots,
Screamin’ truth in the echo loops.
They sold the soul for clickbait gold,
But this fire in us? Can’t be controlled!
🔥*Ohh-oh-oh... This ain't surrender!*🔥
Ohh-oh-oh... It's a war cry, remember!

This ain’t left, this ain’t right —
It’s a soul war in the dead of night.
They divided us like files and views,
But we ain’t code — we’re walkin’ truths.

You want reform? Start with the core.
Family. Faith. Something worth livin’ for.
Not bots in bliss — but hearts that bleed,
Not chains in velvet, but minds set free.

⚡We’re the spark from forgotten days,
Rising up through digital haze.
Yeah, they broke the roots — but not the seed,
And now we bloom where the lost souls bleed.

🔥*Ohh-oh-oh... Reborn in the riot!*🔥
Ohh-oh-oh... Our silence? Defiant!

They thought they buried us...
But we were seeds.
Now watch us rise...
With burning roots and louder dreams.

Broken Roots, Burning Truths


I clock in clean, but the system's filthy,
Smiles in the hall, but they move real stealthy.
Jobs handed out like secret handshakes,
While the résumé kids get left in the wake.

They say “teamwork,” but it’s tribal war,
Promotion’s a mirror you’ll never score.
Nepotism got a corner office key,
While the genius in the corner’s told to “just agree.”

Truth don’t trend in a suit and tie,
But it spreads like fire when the fakes go dry.
Speak once loud — they’ll make you quit,
Gaslight your soul till your fuse is lit.

Corporate kills, but it smiles in emails,
Truth gets filtered, and power prevails.
Train us to nod, then ignore the cries,
But we bleed in cubicles, not in lies.

Burn the script, flip the scene,
This ain't a job — it's a guillotine.
We ain’t your pawns, we're gasoline —
One spark away from breaking the machine.

Favor over fire, and cliques over skill,
Watch the quiet genius get stuck on the drill.
“Speak up!” they say — but the trap is set,
HR’s just PR in a power vest.

Whistleblowers? Only when it’s safe,
Bias coded deep like it's wrapped in faith.
And the state? Just a mirror with a darker face,
Trading justice for a coffee break.

(Whisper) They train us to behave...
(Build) But never to believe.
(Scream) We were never the problem —
They just couldn’t take the heat!

Corporate kills, but it smiles in emails,
Truth gets filtered, and power prevails.
Train us to nod, then ignore the cries,
But we bleed in cubicles, not in lies.

Break the ranks, take the lead,
We ain't machines — we’re wild and free.
Justice ain't polite or clean,
It’s messy, loud, and finally seen!

This isn’t just a song.
It’s a resignation letter to silence.
We’re done waiting.
Now, we burn for truth.

Import the Vote, Export the Soul

Floyd Santimano

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