🖤 Lyrics I Lived First
These songs started in my nervous system.
The ache. The silence. The part that braced. The scream no one translated.
I lived every lyric first.
Then I use Suno AI to give them a voice and instruments.
I don’t sing the songs myself. I write them. I survive them. I finish them.
What you hear is sorcery for closet songwriters: words stitched into sound.
What you read is survival turned into music.
📀 My first full album lives on the GORGEOUS page.
This space is for all the single releases—the songs that keep coming.
🏚 The site is still under reconstruction.
Pages are shifting. Bones are showing. I’m gutting it as I go.
The homepage is music. Because it always was. Every other link? Just bones I left behind for those crawling back to their own body.
👇 Scroll for the songs.
Stop Hurting The Children (Our Little Secret) – Lyrics
I wrote this with shaking hands. These are blurred truths from people I love—made safe, but still burning. I’ve held this song inside for years. The Epstein trials cracked something open. This isn’t a headline. It’s a wound. It’s a prayer. It’s a scream for every kid who was told to stay quiet.
I AM ALFIE (THE BLACK PIG INSIDE) – Lyrics
A stuffed pig named Alfie once offered comfort. Now she returns as black flame, bent-eared and unashamed. This is the lyric blog for I Am Alfie (The Black Pig Inside)—a ritual of hunger reclaimed, rage remembered, and softness reborn in mud. Shame becomes drumbeat. Craving becomes law. The girl who danced in secret doesn’t ask anymore. She stomps. She wants. She stays.
Sorry Was a Spell (Bury the Ghost)
This piece cracks open the word “sorry” and lays its ghost to rest. It follows a moment between strangers—a girl at a train station and the version of myself that met her gaze and remembered. The blog carries a full-body ritual, a breakdown of how “sorry” implants itself in our voice, and a vow to speak louder anyway. This is about shedding shame and taking up air.
Flame in a Paper House (For Brooklynn)
This is a vow song. A lyrical fire for Brooklynn—and every soft soul trained to dim their light. It’s grief turned to rhythm, silence turned to vow. For the ones who didn’t pull over. For the ache of loving what you couldn’t save. If you saw something sacred flicker out and still feel it burning in your ribs—this flame’s for you.
I AM THE FURNACE – Lyrics
I wrote “I Am the Furnace” because I got tired of swallowing my rage. This isn’t a song—it’s a reckoning. I’m holding the heat for every silenced kid, every woman who bit her tongue, every scream that got misnamed as crazy. This blog is a body-map back to your fire—lyrics, ritual, and the truth about what rage really is when you stop pretending it’s bad.
MARROW – Lyrics For The Survivors
This blog holds the full lyrics and ritual spell for MARROW, a rap-metal exorcism of a ghost self born from pelvic shame, forced submission, and silent obedience. It names the flinch, maps the memory, and buries the ghost that once performed “yes” to survive. The body becomes the altar, the voice becomes the flame. Readers walk away with a scream in their palm and a ritual to reclaim their hips.
RAKE AND STICK (FOR EVERY MOTHER AND FATHER WHO HELD IT IN) – Lyrics
This blog digs into the silence shaped by survival. Loui Crow wields the rake and the stick as ritual tools—unearthing what was buried, and swinging what was never allowed to scream. Part lyrical offering, part body-spell, this piece turns inherited weight into rhythm, movement, and breath. It’s a thunder cry of love for the ones who never got to let it out.
WHERE ARE THE MOTHERS – Lyrics
This blog holds the spell of a mother who chooses not to pass it down. I wrote it in the aftermath of a hard moment, with breath still shaking in my ribs. These lyrics track the pattern of rage, restraint, and repair—the sacred loop of staying present in fire without becoming it. I offer this for anyone who has ever stormed, returned, and chosen love with mud still on their boots.
I AM THE RAKE – Lyrics
This is what I wrote instead of screaming.
The rake moved what my mouth couldn’t say.
It dug through the grief I didn’t name—but still felt, still carried, still almost passed on.
It’s a rhythm for the ones who inherited the storm and chose to break the cycle with their body.
Not against the ones who came before—but for them.
For the love that was buried beneath duty.
For the softness that never got spoken.
I swing to clear space for that.
This is how I till the field and return with love.
✦ THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH ✦ – Lyrics
This is the birth story of our son—and of every truth born through pain. It’s blood, breath, and the kind of scream that cracks the ceiling. It’s about staying present when the world goes primal. Whether you’re birthing a child, a self, a truth, or a timeline, this is the anthem for that threshold.
COME | BE | YOU — A Tantrum Gospel for the Loud Ones - Lyrics
COME | BE | YOU is a war cry for the kids who were told to sit still and shut up. It’s a lyrical gospel for the weirdos, the rage-born, the ones who survived by getting loud. This blog unpacks the fire beneath the noise, the sacred scream that saves lives, and the rite of reclaiming your uncaged voice. The song is both a spell and a sermon—an anthem for those ready to make their chaos holy.
🔥 THE FIRE NEVER SLEPT – Lyrics
This blog is a body spell disguised as a song breakdown.
It tells the truth about suppressed rage, sacred pain, and how pretending you're fine makes your body scream louder.
I wrote this track from the heat of chronic tension, back pain, and the quiet sickness of saying yes too long.
This isn't a meltdown—it's a remembering.
If you’ve ever swallowed your fire to stay safe, this is your permission to erupt on purpose.
LOUDER - Lyrics
This is a song for the ones who learned to shrink, smile, and stay silent. LOUDER is a rage anthem and reclamation rite—a lyrical exorcism of every time you were told to hush, calm down, or “be nice.” Through somatic truth-telling and vocal liberation, Loui Crow cracks open the jaw, breathes through the freeze, and lets the sound come back unfiltered. This isn’t about noise—it’s about claim.