Love 6 (prod. by Planit Earf)

Holy Code

The piano whispers, the storm answers. Break the Silence is a journey from shadows into fire — pounding beats, crashing melodies, and a story of struggle turned to strength. Every note is a step from quiet chaos into unstoppable rise.

Break the Silence

Dark political gospel channeling Orwellian dread through contemporary RB and neo-soul. A haunting meditation on power, propaganda, and modern exploitation, where Squealer's lies multiply through pocket screens and Boxer's ghost haunts the gig economy. From whispered conspiracy to thunderous condemnation, this track traces the line from Animal Farm's barn to today's Amazon warehouses—where we've become unable to tell democracy from auction, new boss from old boss.

ANIMAL FARM ( Lyrics )

The commandments were painted fresh
On the barn wall that first morning
White letters drip wet in dawn light
All animals are equal
Fresh starts, clean slates
Until you notice the ladder
Leaning against tomorrow's lies

By evening, Squealer stood
Beneath the same wall
Explaining why milk
Disappeared into the farmhouse
Why apples rotted
In pigs' bellies while horses
Worked double shifts on empty stomachs

He could sell water to drowning men
And make them thank him
His voice, smooth as butter
Turned equal into necessary
Theft into supervision
Hunger into sacrifice

The animals nodded, bodies
Betraying what minds couldn't grasp
Stomachs growling dissent
Like children crying for mothers
Who will never come

Napoleon's teeth gleamed
While Snowball's exile order
Dripped ink on the desk
Two pigs, one throne
Revolution eating its children
Before they learned to walk
Each betrayal sharp as glass
Cutting through brotherhood's myth

In pocket screens
Squealer multiplies
Ten thousand voices explaining
Why billionaires need tax cuts
Why surveillance protects freedom
Why your job disappearing
Means progress

Pay attention to small lies
They lead to larger darkness
Watch Boxer at the quarry
Haunches tremble under weight
Repeating I will work harder
As his spine curves
Toward claiming earth

Hard work, another word
For slowly killing yourself
For someone else's dream
This is Tuesday at Amazon
Wednesday at The Warehouse
Thursday's gig economy
Where your car becomes office
Debt becomes motivation
Body becomes currency
Traded for permission to exist
Each day carved from flesh

Some animals are more equal than others
Paint still wet
When they changed the commandment
Morning said one thing
Nightfall, another
No one remembered original words
Except the feeling something
Was stolen while they slept
Memory bleeding black
Into forgetfulness

Election night, two thousand twenty-four
The candidate promising change
Shakes hands with lobbyists
In rooms without cameras
News anchors explain
Why handshakes mean progress
Why healthcare disappearing
Means freedom expanding
While we sit believing television
Like children believing Santa

Animals press weary faces
Against farmhouse windows
Speckled in shit
Unable to tell pig from man
We press our faces
Against blue screens
Unable to tell
Democracy from auction
Representation from performance
New boss from old boss

In hairy darkness beyond the barn
Something moves
Heavy hooves on gravel
Breathing that refuses to break
Boxer's eyes gleam, In shadow
Boxer's eyes gleam, In shadow
Boxer's eyes gleam, Boxer's eyes gleam
Boxer's eyes gleam, In shadow

Animal Farm

No wonder I take flight, on this cold and eerie night, Witches, Goblins, Pumpkin Heads, all the things I fear ass dread spreads

These eyes, those eyes, I can't lie, no disguise, no disguise

Halloween night

Lyrics:
Empty days—I softly watch the clock;
Each second velvet-smooth, yet heavy as a rock.
I drift through life with neither aim nor lore;
All flat and colorless—I’m reaching out for more.

With every step the road slips from my feet;
The shadows whisper; I can’t find the light I seek.
Where hides the sense of this forsaken span?
I hunt a compass—yet I cannot find a plan.

Lost within time, I long to be set free,
For one clear answer cutting through my misery.
Perhaps the way lies deep within my chest—
A hidden path where hope is softly pressed.
Oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh

Everyone speeds forward on a chosen track;
I stand with questions pressing hard upon my back.
What grants true meaning to this hollow span?
The silence in me beats me where I stand.

“They say joy lives in you alone,” I hear;
Yet my inner voice is fragile, thin and sheer.
That silence swells to sirens, sharp with dread—
Will I escape this want that begs for bread?

Lost within time, I long to be set free,
For one clear answer cutting through my misery.
Perhaps the way lies deep within my chest—
A hidden path where hope is softly pressed.
Oh, oh, oh
Oh, oh, oh

Perhaps I’ll find my solace in one tender care—
A whispering of light, miraculous and rare.

Life feels empty now—but not eternally;
Somewhere within, a quiet song awakens me.

Lost Within Time

Cold Streets 2025

Don't remember my name
Just remember you're not crazy
Don't remember my face
Just remember someone made this
Hoping it would find you
On the night you needed saving
I don't want to be famous
I just don't want you to feel alone


I don't care if you know me. I just want you to know that you're not alone.

I Don't Want To Be Famous

Blood Moon Static

Ashes

Cold Math is a ledger you can feel in your ribs: tracks where melodic rap carries the hard arithmetic of survival, and blues pours the emotion that numbers can’t hold. The album lives in that split-second math of the street—rent due, phone dead, hunger loud—where every choice has interest and every mistake compounds. Over sirens, neon, and concrete sermons, the hooks arrive like oxygen: not pretty, not polite, but honest enough to keep the chest moving. This is music about being “boxed in, cornered by design,” and still finding a way to stand ten toes down without turning your soul into spare change.

But the “cold” in Cold Math isn’t just the world—it’s the clarity you earn when you stop bargaining with reality. Across these songs, the narrator evolves from counting losses to balancing the ledger: looking around at a pixelated life, owning contradictions, cutting doubt out like a bad wire, and building a ladder out of the void one bar at a time. The blues shows up as bruised tenderness under the grit; the rap shows up as precision and nerve—proof that persistence isn’t flex culture, it’s breathwork. If there’s a thesis here, it’s simple and relentless: not survival of the fittest—just the struggle for existence, and the refusal to be erased.

Holy Code

WEME

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Benny Chavez

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