Pennies Per Play
Statement hits my inbox with a subject line that tries to sound upbeat
“Great news, you’ve been streamed worldwide
” with numbers that almost make my heart beat
Hundreds of thousands, maybe more
little plays stacked in a row
Scroll down to the payout line and feel my stomach drop below.
Twelve countries on the breakdown
cities I will never see
Strangers humming something I carved out of the softest part of me
Comments say it saved their night
helped them crawl out of a fight
Then the royalty reads “eighty-four dollars” for a whole damn year of spite.
I got pennies per play while the platform eats the feast
They feed me scraps of my own work like I’m some desperate beast
You can tell me that I’m “global
” you can brag about my reach
But my rent wants more than fractions from a billionaire’s vault.
There’s a playlist with my track on it between two platinum acts
I sit in a tiny kitchen listening to someone else count the facts
Executives on conference calls congratulating their bold new era
While I stare at the cracked-up linoleum and this financial terror.
Used to sell a record hand to hand and feel the weight of what it meant
Now my whole discography’s reduced to a fraction of a cent That can buy on some accounting sheet three doors down from the C-suite glass
I pour my life into a mic, they pour it into gas.
I got pennies per play while the platform sells my skin
They say “the exposure’s priceless
” funny how that never fills the bin
My song’s out in a thousand bars, in cars, in beds
in trains
But the only thing that shows up here is a footnote in their gains.
Yeah, I’m grateful someone’s listening
I’m not blind to that truth
But there’s a difference between gratitude and being robbed of all my youth
If you can build an empire off the backs of what I sing
Don’t act surprised I’m angry at the crumbs you choose to fling.
Merch box in the hallway, couple shirts I never sold
Vinyl press I barely paid for gathering dust and getting old
I play the math in circles, tour costs, gear
the car I drive
The numbers on this statement say I shouldn’t still be alive.
Still, tomorrow I’ll be tracking
chasing that perfect crooked line
Trying to bottle one more heartbreak that might ring in your spine
Even knowing when the statements drop and I open them again
I’ll get a pat on the head in text and loose change for my pain.
I got pennies per play while the gatekeepers grow fat
They turned our souls to background noise in someone else’s chat
If this is what success is worth in this plastic-covered grave
No wonder every honest song sounds a little more depraved. One day I might pull my masters
take them off the golden wheel
Sell them at a folding table to the ones who want to feel
Till then I ride the fractions
count the cents instead of fame
Sing for the ones who hear me
not the ones who own my sound.