Performed by Emily Stellar with Christopher Sopher
℗ CosmicCrusaderMusic.com (BMI/ASCAP)
©Written, Produced, and Published by Christopher Sopher Media, LLC
Phoenix, Arizona
“Feeding the Machine” is a rock track born from frustration with repetition, conditioning, and the manufactured rhythms of modern life. It questions the scripted cycles of work, holidays, routines, expectations, and consumption that repeat until people stop asking why. What makes it special is the collision between raw social commentary and hypnotic rock energy, turning that pressure into sound through driving guitars, psychedelic texture, wah-driven atmosphere, and a commanding female vocal filled with defiance and urgency. The chorus, “feeding the machine,” is immediate and memorable, carrying a phrase listeners instantly understand and connect to. Lyrically, it speaks for anyone who has felt out of place inside systems that reward obedience over independent thought, blending classic rock spirit with modern frustration in a way that feels both familiar and current.
Lyrics: Feeding the Machine (Extended Version)
The wheel turns, the cycle spins,
etched deep in the marrow of time.
A clockwork dream we never questioned,
read with hollowed eyes in line.
January whispers illusions,
February sells hearts by the pound.
March hymns saving everlasting souls.
April weeps, but doesn’t drown.
They brand the sky in neon signs,
flash the seasons on repeat.
Holidays march in silence,
woven tight into the beat.
The workweek binds, the schedule grinds,
the ritual hums, and we obey.
Stamped, folded, factory-pressed,
we become parts to run the day.
The Churning Wheel, made of false time,
ticks along this endless ride.
Where it takes you, no one knows,
it’s all part of the Churning Wheel,
feeding the machine.
feeding the machine.
And what of those who break the rhythm,
who see the strings, dodge the trap?
Outliers, rebels, ghost voices,
too mad to kneel, too wild to map.
They said, “This is how it’s done,”
like rules were carved in stone.
But who declared time a prison,
and dreams must march alone?
We’re not born of ink and paper,
nor numbered frames, nor silent codes.
We are rivers bursting mountains,
we are fire, we explode.
The Churning Wheel, made of false time,
ticks along this endless ride.
Where it takes you, no one knows,
it’s all part of the Churning Wheel,
feeding the machine.
feeding the machine.
I saw their hands, fingers reaching,
corporate hunger in disguise.
They dressed chains in golden words,
fed you dreams, and called them life.
They sold you love, they sold you purpose,
wrapped in pages, priced and staged.
Turn the dial, one loop over,
reset the lie, rebuild the cage.
But I won’t march in careful steps,
nor carve my name in hollow stone.
I won’t ignite their furnace fires,
I won’t call this path my own.
Let me wake beyond their limits,
where time is wind and breathing’s free.
Let me live beyond the framework,
break the locks, and burn the keys.
I stare back at the pattern,
the puzzle where I never fit.
Where do I belong in all this?
A question that won’t quit.
They tried to crush the sound inside me,
fed my fire to their gears.
But they saw the blaze behind silence,
and feared the mind with no fears.
They caged me young, shaped my hands,
trained my spark to be polite.
But the wild never stays fenced,
I was never born to bite.
The Churning Wheel, made of false time,
ticks along this endless ride.
Where it takes you, no one knows,
it’s all part of the Churning Wheel,
feeding the machine.
feeding the machine.
I walked the world with lowered gaze,
thinking I was wrong, too small.
But even then, the embers stirred,
a whisper: “You will burn it all.”
Then the sky split wide and watching,
a great eye staring down.
I saw myself, the one long gone,
the voice reborn, the sound.
Now I roar, I tear through silence,
words like thunder, wild and free.
I lost my way, but I have risen,
and nothing will quiet me.
And now the echoes rise and ring,
what will I do with the voice I bring…
Original Poem
The Churning Wheel
by Christopher Sopher
February 6, 2025
The Churning Wheel
The wheel turns, the cycle spins,
etched deep in the marrow of time—
a clockwork dream we never questioned,
a script we read with hollowed eyes.
January whispers of resolutions,
February sells love by the pound,
March hums hymns of pastel sugar,
April weeps, but never drowns.
They brand the sky with neon banners,
scream the seasons in flashing signs.
Holidays march in endless patterns,
woven tight into our minds.
The workweek cages, the schedule binds,
the ritual calls, and we obey.
Stamped, processed, and neatly folded,
we become the parts that make the day.
And what of those who break the rhythm,
who see the game for what it is?
Outliers, rebels, ghosts unchained—
too wild to kneel, too mad to fit.
They tell you, “This is how it’s done,”
but who first drew the line in stone?
Who said a life must fit in boxes,
and days must kneel before the throne?
We are not born in ink and paper,
nor numbered souls in hollow frames.
We are rivers bursting borders,
we are fire—we are flames.
I see their hands, outstretched and waiting,
corporate hunger in their veins.
They weave the net with gilded language,
softened chains dressed up as names.
They sell you love, they sell you purpose,
they sell you meaning by the page.
Turn the dial—one cycle over,
reset the dream, rebuild the cage.
But I will not march in careful footsteps,
nor carve my name in hollow stone.
I will not feed their hungry furnace,
I will not call their rules my own.
Let me wake where sky is endless,
where time is nothing but a breeze.
Let me breathe beyond the framework,
break the mold, and burn the keys.
And here I stand, staring back,
at the puzzle I was forced to fit.
Where do I belong in all of this?
A question that echoes, but never quits.
I know why they tried to silence me,
why they took my voice and fed it to the gears.
They saw the fire behind my eyes,
and feared the mind that had no fears.
They caged me young, they shaped my hands,
molded my thoughts into something tame.
But the wild never stays behind fences,
and I was never meant to play their game.
I walked the world with lowered gaze,
thinking I was less, unworthy, small—
but even in the quiet, the embers burned,
whispering that I was meant for more.
And one day, the sky split open—
a great unblinking eye staring down.
I saw myself, the one I lost,
the voice returning, the breaking sound.
Now I roar, I tear through silence,
words like thunder, unchained and free.
I lost my way, but I am back—
and nothing, nothing will silence me.
And now that the echoes rise and ring,
what will I do with the voice I bring?
The Theft of Grounding
by Christopher Sopher
February 6, 2025
They took the word and wrung it dry,
stripped it bare beneath their sky.
Once it meant the touch of earth,
feet in soil, a soul’s rebirth.
Now it sits on office walls,
a hollow phrase in corporate halls.
"Stay grounded," they murmur low,
as wires hum and circuits glow.
They trade the soil for sterile floors,
the sun for screens, the sky for stores.
No roots to dig, no winds to chase,
just numbers marching into place.
They twist the words to fit their chains,
reshape the truth to hide the flames.
For if we stood with toes in sand,
felt the pulse beneath our hands,
We’d know the whispers in the trees,
the voice of rivers, the breath of seas.
We’d hear the hum they try to hide,
the boundless song of life inside.
But they fear the ones who break their mold,
who walk with earth, untamed and bold.
So they redefine, they steal, they spin—
but they can’t unroot the fire within.
