This song is a pocket ritual. The words come from an old ceremonial protection practice, set to upbeat, theatrical music meant to feel energizing. To clear mental noise and start fresh — something short I can keep in my ears anytime. No background required (though you’re welcome to learn the ritual). Just press play and let it do what it does.

May your space hold.
May your edges stay clear.
A little crow’s on the wire, keeping watch over you. 🐦‍⬛

Built from the oldest protection ritual in the book and remixed through chaos magick, it’s what happens when prayer gets a beat drop. Cleanses your field, reboots your will, and leaves you humming like a freshly saged modem.. Side effects may include clarity, laughter, and spontaneous boundary upgrades. A devotional you can dance to—equal parts spell, sweat, and serotonin.

They told me 666 was the devil’s phone number—turns out it’s customer service for the heart. I stopped running from the “beast” when I realized it was just my pulse, unashamed. Six is the heart, not the horror. It’s where spirit remembers it has skin. This track is my sun-code confession: body, soul, and spark saying yes at once. Holy looks better when it sweats.

This blog opens the ritual body of The Cross + Pentagram, a somatic alt-rap track that reclaims two sacred symbols from fear and misuse. It teaches the body how to mark itself holy using breath, chant, and touch—turning trauma into shield, and memory into flame. This is a nervous system anthem disguised as a rap song. It’s a map back to your altar—yourself.

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.

This one came through like thunder. I wrote it from the ribs, where the church and the wound both echo. “Ripple” isn’t about saving—it's about seeing. It’s Christ and the Devil, rage and breath, ash and gold. I’m not the map. I’m the quake. The scream. The mirror. The ripple. I wrote this to wake the holy in your hurt.

This one isn’t a song. It’s a spell. I wrote it for every part of me that never got the funeral, never got the scream. Crow is the witness. The mirror. The scream in sky-shape. She remembers what the world tried to forget. I gave her my ache. She gave it wings. If you’ve ever swallowed your truth to keep the peace—she’s circling for you.

This one ripped itself out of me. It’s the truth I swallowed for years. I wrote this inside the guilt—while it still had claws in my throat. It names the lie of being “nice.” Of being liked for staying silent. It’s not about blame—it’s about reclamation. I can’t make them happy. I was never meant to. I’m with me now.

This song is spellwork. “YOUNIVERSE” is a vibrational gut-check—a mirror made of sound. Every lyric is a choice point between fear and clarity. Inspired by the teachings of Abraham Hicks and Bashar, it pulls the veil back on projection, self-trust, and emotional architecture. You shape your reality. This song shows you how.

Wifey Got a Good Life—a love song rooted in mess, memory, and staying through the storm. It captures the quiet joy of a life co-built: cold rice on the stove, laughter in the kitchen, a child drawing on the wall. The moment holds because love held first. This isn’t a dream—it’s the real thing, and it hums from the inside out.

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.

This is a song for the body—for the cells that ache, the joints that burn, the brain fog that weighs heavy. "Blueberry Loves You" is a medicinal love song, sung from the voice of the fruit itself, entering the bloodstream like a spell. It names the invisible work of healing, soothing, restoring. It’s not a recipe—it’s a prayer in verse form.

This song is my reckoning. BECAUSE I SAID SO came from the gap between how I was showing up and who I wanted to be. It’s the sound of me catching myself mid-script, mid-yell, mid-trigger—and choosing something different. I didn’t write this from theory—I wrote it from the floor, holding the weight of my own voice.

This blog is the lyrical eulogy for SARAH—the ghost self who survived by vanishing. It tells the story of a girl who performed peace, smiled through pain, and died inward so the future could breathe. Through lyrics, ritual, and somatic breakdown, this piece names the cost of self-erasure and the beauty of walking away. It's not about shame—it’s about release, choice, and fire.

This blog reveals the grief ritual behind FUNERAL SELFIE, a scream with eyeliner and dirt in her teeth. It breaks down what “cringe” really is—a flinch, a body-based shame pattern, and a ghost that feeds on silence. With lyrics, body-spell ritual, and affirmation, this piece invites you to rake the shame, name the pain, and post the proof. You’ll leave with dirt under your nails and your voice intact.