“I’m Not Sorry” is about not becoming something untrue just because someone wants you to dance, or live, on a foundation of lies strangers have cemented for you.  It’s about being proud of not caving and trading your honor for dishonor and cash…and having no regrets.  Thank you for listening. — Mirika

I'm Not Sorry

Go ahead and spin the record, but I’m not going to sing that sorry song you wrote for me. The melody sucks, and my ears don’t like to hear it much because it’s all a fabrication. You’re creating lies and making a dime off my time, so I’m not singing it, and no, I’m not sorry either.  That sad song says nothing about me and my nation, how you picked it apart is pure degradation so I don’t understand the fascination you’ve fantasized about.  You’re not turning me out nor selling me down stream for your dream off the sweat of my black back.

So spin the record, but you won’t hear my beautiful voice over the track.  I’d rather sing on the side of the streets, next to a homeless man while he’s tapping out my beat.  Vibrating my sound while underground might not be so bad, even after you offered me all you claimed you had, I still come out on top because your mountain of money can’t force me to drop my dignity.  I’ll stick to scraping around for my pennies while watching you burn inside, keep smirking while you pretend that you have it all together but really can’t decide what you’re going to do without me since I refuse to sing your sorry song.

Now look who’s dreams are gone.  All that sitting on a track that you boast and brag about, drag my name through the mud behind my black back attack, but I still left you broken behind closed doors, squirming around on all fours, wallowing in all that green that you tried to give me, but that you really need, if I sing that song.  Like I told you before, the melody sucks, and my ears don’t like to hear it much because the man who wrote it was a liar, creating fabrications to make money off of my dispensation, so I’m not singing it, and no, I’m not sorry either.

I heard what you said because you said it like an old, loud preacher, except there was no choir, when you fired off that I wouldn’t amount to a hill of shame and no stars would ever light up my name.  Said without you, I would be nothing, and if I didn’t sing that song, you tried to convince me that my life would be gone but you made a drastic mistake.  My worth was something you could never cause me to contemplate because why would I close my eyes to my own demise behind a sad sack of dreams you touted were for me when in reality, those dreams were only for your pocket…so I knocked it.

If you would have listened, I told you that the melody sucks.  It’s a crime and an unlovely story, painted with brushes and not fingertips, written with water and not sand, scrubbed down with ice and not etched in skin with the sun.  The song is in shambles and made to ramble about nothing, dishonest about my something.  So just spin the record, but you won’t get my voice over the track.  I’d rather sing on the side of the dusty streets than beg for my priceless soul back.

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