I didn’t write these to rhyme. I wrote them because they wouldn’t stay in my body.
They were migraines. Jaw locks. Sleepless nights.
They were shame in the throat and screams without permission.
They were bruises before they were bars.

This isn’t poetry. It’s scar documentation.
Every line is a nerve flare. Every song a body memory.
This is trauma transmutation. Somatic spellwork. Featherlock frequency.

I never set out to write music. I set out to survive myself.
And this is what made it through the wreckage.
What I couldn’t say with a smile. What I couldn’t quiet with a journal.

These are songs for the ones who shake when they speak.
Who ghost their friends.
Who carry fire in the gut and call it anxiety.
You’re not broken. Your body is telling the truth in full volume.

I didn’t write these to be catchy.
I wrote them to find the way back to myself.
You can call them lyrics.
I call them evidence I didn’t vanish.

So yeah—read them. Stream them. Feel what stirs.
You don’t owe me anything. I’m just trying to figure myself out.
But if you hear yourself inside these sounds,
just know: I was never writing to be saved.
I was writing to witness what lives.

Welcome to Lyrics I Lived First.
Where survival became sound.
And healing got bass.