Throne of Lies / Престол брехні
I wrote this one the year I stopped being quiet inside my own life.
For most of my life I carried everything in. That was how I survived — I held it, I stayed steady, I said nothing. I thought silence was safety. I didn't know yet that it was also a cage.
This was the year that changed. I stood in front of the ocean for the first time, with just me, my fear, and the waves — and something woke up. My therapist called it an awakening, and he was right. After that I wanted to know myself. I started doing the work. I started, slowly, to speak.
And speaking was the one thing that was never allowed. Don't tell anyone. That was the rule. So of course, the moment I finally broke it — the moment my voice came out of my own mouth — everything cracked open.
Throne of Lies — Престол брехні — is what came out of that crack.
Because here is what I learned: a lie needs your silence to stand. People can build a whole throne out of half-truths — cut your sentences, keep the version that flatters them, point a camera at you and call your calm "proof," stage a story where you are the villain — and it only holds up as long as you keep your mouth shut.
They built a theater inside the barn
To paint a villain that I simply am not
The throne is heavy. The glass is already cracking. It just needs one true voice to bring the walls down.
The song lives in two worlds on purpose. The verses are cold and watched — that's the world of their story, the surveillance, the narrative built around me while I was told to disappear. Then the chorus breaks. That eruption is not rage. It's truth arriving. It's the sound of a woman who finally will not be managed into quiet.
And the most honest part of the whole thing is the bridge, where everything drops away. That's where the real things are — the ones they couldn't touch. The ocean that woke me up. The garden I planted with my own hands, the wild, alive roses that kept blooming while my life came apart. The single backpack I walked out with, carrying almost nothing but myself. The suffering that turned out to be a teacher and not a sentence. And now I'm sovereign, and I am awake.
I'm not writing this from the far side of it. I'm still in the middle of the storm as I sing it. But that's exactly why it had to be a song — because doing the forbidden thing, out loud and on my own terms, in a voice they can't edit, is how I take my story back. They can keep their throne. I have my voice, my garden, and the truth. That's more than enough to bring it down.
If someone ever told you to stay quiet so their version could stand — this one is for you. Your voice was never the danger. It's the thing that sets you free.
Its sister song is Teach Me — same season, same cold, the other half of the answer.