For I Am Death is not a song. It is possession. The voice that rises here is not human, not wounded, not pleading. It is Devi Herself — the dark Mother, the one we flee from and cannot escape, speaking nakedly, without mask or compromise. Rarely in music does Her current erupt with such directness. Here, She does not veil Herself in tenderness or metaphor. She names Herself plainly: I am Death.
From the opening refrain — “there’s something wrong with me” — She crowns Herself with the accusation humans have hurled at Her for millennia. Wrong, obscene, unholy, terrifying. She repeats it until the insult becomes mantra, until stigma turns into sovereignty. With each line the current grows more physical, more invasive: needles in the hands, fire in the bones, voltage crawling up the spine. This is not poetry. This is the unmistakable electricity of Shakti coursing through flesh, forcing the listener into confrontation with what lies beyond control.
And then comes the proclamation: “I got my hands upon the wheel.” This is not symbolic. It is revelation. She alone steers the wheel of time, the cycle of births and deaths. Kings do not, gods do not, you do not. Her hand turns, and worlds are born or extinguished. Yet within this sovereignty there is a paradoxical intimacy: “When will it end, this sufferin’ of late? It was nice to know you.” No consolation, but a kind of ruthless mercy — recognition of the fragile “you” before dissolving it into Her abyss.
The Bridge is Her solitude unveiled. She waits in the blind spot of every mind, where even darkness is blind, watching humans run from Her, invent distractions, hide behind their noise. Yet She does not chase. She waits, still and inevitable, because time itself will deliver every being into Her arms. That loneliness — absolute power wedded to eternal exile — is sung here with both majesty and wound.
This is why For I Am Death feels more possessed than almost any other song. It is not about Her. It is not to Her. It is Her. The Goddess in Her most feral truth: merciless, sovereign, yet secretly tender. Listening to it is not entertainment — it is darśan, a confrontation with the one presence that cannot be denied, delayed, or deceived. Kali unveiled, singing through human chords, reminding us: She has always been here, and She will be the last to remain.
[Verse 1]
There's somethin' wrong with me
I cut, but I don't bleed
There's somethin' wrong with me
I like autonomy
Away from all you freaks
There's somethin' wrong with me
There's somethin' wrong with me
“There’s somethin’ wrong with me”
She begins with paradox. Death itself is what we fear, what we call “wrong.” By putting those words in Her own mouth, Devi turns the mirror: You call Me wrong because you can’t accept Me. But I am simply truth.
“I cut, but I don’t bleed”
This is the mark of Her transcendence. Death is wounding without wound, incision without injury. She is beyond the flesh, beyond the pain that mortals dread. The blade does not diminish Her; She is the blade.
“There’s somethin’ wrong with me / I like autonomy”
Autonomy here means sovereignty. Death answers to no one. Kings, beggars, saints — all bend before Her. She has no master, no leash. The devotee sees this as “wrong,” because it terrifies: a power beyond all control. But Devi sings it proudly: I am free, I am sovereign, I am not yours to tame.
“Away from all you freaks / There’s somethin’ wrong with me”
She separates Herself from the crowd. People cling to masks, to normalcy, to their tiny dramas. Death walks apart. The exile here is not weakness — it’s Her dignity. She is other because She will not play the human game.
“There’s somethin’ wrong with me”
The repetition is deliberate. She wears the accusation as a crown. The bhakta trembles at Death; society calls Her wrong; but She repeats it like a mantra: Yes, I am what you call wrong. That is My glory.
Verse 1 establishes Devi’s stance: alien, sovereign, feared, yet unyielding. Not disguised in tenderness — this is Her feral truth.
[Pre-Chorus]
I can feel the needles in my hands
Feel the needles in my bones
Crawlin' up my spine to where God only knows
“I can feel the needles in my hands”
This is not torment — it’s voltage. The sensation of nerves burning with Her current. The stigmata-like image is deliberate: hands pierced, but not in suffering — in possession. She marks the body as Hers.
“Feel the needles in my bones”
She does not stop at the surface. The current drills deeper, into marrow, into the core of being. Death is not skin-deep; She penetrates what holds you upright, the lattice of your existence. Even your structure quivers with Her presence.
“Crawlin’ up my spine to where God only knows”
Here the imagery erupts mystical. The current is Kuṇḍalinī itself — crawling, surging, biting its way up the suṣumṇā. The destination is beyond even concept: to where God only knows. In truth, Death is showing the secret: that the spine is the road to dissolution, the path to the crown where form ends and She reigns.
This pre-chorus is Devi embodying Herself. She is not abstract, not distant. She names the exact way Her current feels in the body: sharp, invasive, crawling, unstoppable. It’s terrifying if resisted — ecstatic if surrendered.
[Chorus]
For I am Death and I can feel
I got my hands upon the wheel
I am not lost
For I have found the only one
Who put me down
For I am Death and I won't break
I got a life
I've got to take
When will it end, this sufferin' of late?
It was nice to know you
“For I am Death and I can feel”
She doesn’t speak as symbol, metaphor, or threat. She names Herself directly: I am Death. But She adds what most fear to admit — She feels. Death is not numbness or absence. It is the most awake, most sensitive current of all.
“I got my hands upon the wheel”
Here Devi unveils sovereignty. The wheel is fate, time, samsāra. She steers it, not kings, not gods, not humans. This is not boasting but revelation: you live and die because My hands turn the wheel.
“I am not lost / For I have found the only one who put me down”
A paradox. Death cannot be lost because She is the end of all paths. Yet She speaks of being “put down” — not as defeat, but as consecration. Only the Absolute, the ground of Being, can “put down” Death. She confesses: Even I kneel before that source. That is My origin, My only Beloved.
“For I am Death and I won’t break”
Unyielding. Bodies break, worlds break, even stars burn out. Death alone does not. Her voice here is adamantine: I will not shatter. I will not be subdued. I am what endures when all else collapses.
“I got a life I’ve got to take”
The line pierces because it is truth. Death is not abstract — She comes for you, for me, for all. Not cruel, not sadistic — but duty-bound. Her function is to take what was never yours to keep.
“When will it end, this sufferin’ of late? / It was nice to know you”
Here Her tone twists — part mocking, part tender. To the suffering soul She says: Yes, it will end — in Me. The farewell is chilling but strangely compassionate: It was nice to know you. She acknowledges the fleeting self before it dissolves, like a mother stroking a child before sending it back into the night.
This chorus is Devi’s sovereign proclamation. She is not villain, not comforter. She is the Hand on the Wheel. She ends suffering not by curing it, but by cutting it off.
[Verse 2]
I'm like pornography
Cut from a magazine
There's somethin' wrong with me
There's somethin' wrong with me
“I’m like pornography / Cut from a magazine”
She names how humans relate to Her: as spectacle, as commodity. Death is stripped of mystery and turned into image — something to stare at, fetishize, aestheticize, without ever touching the real. The line drips with irony: you consume My shadow, but you cannot stomach My presence.
“There’s somethin’ wrong with me / There’s somethin’ wrong with me”
The refrain returns, but now sharper. The world insists She is “wrong” — obscene, grotesque, to be hidden away like pornography. Devi repeats the charge as accusation: you call Me wrong because I remind you of your own end. She wears the stigma like a crown.
Verse 2 reveals Her loneliness in distortion. Humans project shame onto Her, consume Her in fantasy, yet run from Her in truth. She does not soften that contradiction — She sings it with disdain, even a kind of dark amusement.
[Bridge]
And in the back of your mind
Where even dark is blind
Lookin' for a sign
Waitin' for your time to come
But you can't outrun
The hand of fate
And I will wait
For I am Death and all alone
So many years out on my own
And everyone just runs and hides away
Hides away from me
“And in the back of your mind / Where even dark is blind”
She names the hidden chamber — the place humans refuse to look, deeper than dreams, deeper than fear. Even darkness doesn’t see there, because it is the root: the unlit ground where all certainties collapse. Death dwells in that blind spot. She is the silence beneath every thought.
“Lookin’ for a sign / Waitin’ for your time to come”
This is the human condition: endless waiting, scanning the horizon for destiny, dreading the moment She arrives. Yet all the while, She is already here. The waiting is illusion — the encounter is inevitable.
“But you can’t outrun / The hand of fate”
Here the mask drops. No escape. No bargaining. No delaying. The hand of fate is Her own. She doesn’t chase; She waits, certain that all must return.
“And I will wait”
Patience is Her ferocity. She doesn’t hurry because She cannot be denied. She waits in perfect stillness, knowing time itself delivers you into Her hands.
“For I am Death and all alone / So many years out on my own”
This is the most piercing confession. She is absolute, yet solitary. No one welcomes Her, no one embraces Her. She waits apart, the power everyone flees from but no one escapes. Her loneliness is cosmic: sovereign and unapproachable.
“And everyone just runs and hides away / Hides away from me”
The final sting of truth. Humans pretend She is far off, hide behind distractions, laughter, noise. But She sees. Their hiding is transparent, almost pitiful. The tenderness in Her voice is laced with irony: I watch you hide, but I know you’re already mine.
The Bridge is Devi’s revelation of solitude — not weakness, but the price of being absolute. She waits, unseen, while all beings run. Yet She knows they will all return, because there is nowhere else to go.
[Chorus]
For I am Death and I can feel
I got my hands upon the wheel
I am not lost
For I have found the only one
Who put me down
For I am Death and I won't break
I got a life
I've got to take
When will it end, this sufferin' of late?
It was nice to know you
“For I am Death and I can feel / I got my hands upon the wheel”
By this return, the words are no longer revelation but decree. She does not argue or persuade; She simply declares what always has been. The wheel of time, the cycle of births and deaths — it never leaves Her grasp.
“I am not lost / For I have found the only one who put me down”
The paradox repeats with heavier gravity. Death cannot be lost, for She is the end of all paths. Yet She names the Source — the Absolute, Śiva, the stillness before Her dance. Only That can “put down” Death, because only That is beyond ending. Here She hints: I am sovereign, but I too bow before the One who contains Me.
“For I am Death and I won’t break / I got a life I’ve got to take”
The lines land colder now. There is no malice, only inevitability. Bodies break, worlds break, but Death does not. And She has a task — not chosen, not avoided. To take life is not cruelty, but function. Her voice is the scalpel that cuts illusions.
“When will it end, this sufferin’ of late? / It was nice to know you”
The refrain closes with Her paradoxical tenderness. To those crushed by suffering, She says: I will end it — in Myself. The farewell is gentle and merciless at once: It was nice to know you. The “you” is the fragile self, the fleeting mask — acknowledged, then released into Her abyss.
The final chorus resounds like scripture: Death is Devi’s face that never hides, never breaks, never yields. She speaks not as threat but as fact — and the song itself becomes Her mantra, circling back to what no one wants to hear but everyone must.
When the last chorus fades, nothing feels resolved. There is no closure, no comfort, no promise of safety. Only Her voice lingers, circling in the blood like a brand: I am Death, I hold the wheel, I will not break. The listener is left exposed, stripped of the illusions we use to cushion ourselves from the abyss. That stripping is the gift.
This is why the song is so possessed. It is not about death as metaphor or theme — it is Death speaking as Goddess, forcing us to hear what we spend our lives avoiding. She declares Her sovereignty not in abstraction but in the language of the body: nerves burning, spine crawling, bones pierced. She reveals Her loneliness, Her patience, Her strange mercy. And in the final gesture — “It was nice to know you” — She reminds us that even annihilation carries a kind of intimacy.
For I Am Death is scripture of Kali in Her rawest aspect. It does not console or seduce; it confronts. It drags the listener into the terrible truth that all masks will be stripped, all resistance will collapse, all suffering will end — not by cure, but by Her embrace. The one we call wrong, obscene, terrifying is in fact the Mother who never abandons, because none can escape Her.
To hear this song is to taste darśan: fierce, unmediated, undeniable. The current does not ask for permission. It names itself, it waits, it takes. And when it takes, it is final — merciless, compassionate, and absolute.
No comments:
Post a Comment