I don’t rage to hurt people.
I rage so I don’t.

This is my furnace.
This is where the scream goes when the world says “shhh.”
This is where the plates don’t get broken. The children don’t get scared.
This is where the leash snaps, and no one bleeds.

I make songs so the rage doesn’t eat me.
I rake. I growl. I stomp. I scream into the dirt
I pull the tension out of my throat and give it rhythm.
Not to glorify it. Not to excuse it.
To alchemize it.
To let it move clean.
To come back calm.

Because I’ve lived the other way.
Tight jaw. Bit tongue. Tight everything.
Smile so sweet it rots the teeth.
Panic dressed up like politeness.
I’ve watched my body scream when my voice couldn’t.
I’ve cleaned the mess of being “nice” at the cost of my nervous system.
And I’m done holding myself back to keep others comfortable.

This page is the exhale.
The prayer that starts with a growl.
The spell that stomps. The vow that shouts.
Because sometimes healing looks like kicking dirt.
Sometimes it sounds like RAGE FIT.
Sometimes it means swinging a rake into the ground with your whole body
because if you don’t move it out, you pass it down.

“I swing the rage so I can kiss his face.”
– I Am the Rake

This work is for the mothers who broke the chain.
This is for the daughters who flinched when love got loud.
This is for the good kids who swallowed their pain
and for the grownups learning to let it go loud now—on purpose, on beat.

“This ain’t a breakdown—it’s the shift.”
– Rage Fit

My rage isn’t random.
It’s sacred.
It’s data.
It’s the body saying “boundary.”
It’s my history, my no, my fire, my line.
It’s every scream I never got to finish when I was silenced.
It’s grief with teeth. And I let it howl.

This rage isn’t for your inbox.
It’s not a license to yell at your partner or your kids or your mom.
This rage has rules.
This rage is ritual.
This rage is how I come back—soft, clear, connected.

This rage is so I don’t hurt the people I love.

I build songs like somatic blueprints.
You can move to them.
Shake. Stomp. Cry. Run.
Lay on the floor and say fuck as many times as you need.
Because it’s not about the noise.
It’s about letting it move through,
so you’re not carrying it in your throat,
or your jaw,
or your gut,
or the voice you take with you into your relationships.

This is nervous system work.
This is grief work.
This is rage as medicine, not performance.

“Tantrums ain't madness—they’re medicine.
My toddler knows it better than I did”
– Rage Fit

Every verse is a breadcrumb I left for myself.
A map out of the cage.
I still use them.
I still rage.

I’m not here to fix you.
I’m not here to lead you.
I’m here to show what it looks like
when the silence finally loses.

Read the lyrics.
Play the tracks.
Rage like it saves something.
Because it does.

Your kids are watching.
Your body is listening.
And the cage already cracked.

Let it break.

🜂
Let it burn.
Let it move.

This page is still forming.
The ritual is still writing itself.