My skull hums—
a power station at midnight,
every nerve a live wire
crackling with half-born verses,
crooked stories hammering
against the inside of my teeth
begging release.
I walk past cracked sidewalks
everyone else has learned to ignore
while my brain transmutes peeling paint
into failed romances,
a single car horn
into a siren
for people who never came home.
I have heard the cleanroom choirs—
tight, bright, perfectly timed,
built from code and commercial prayer—
and I have heard the chart junk
that lives on dance floors
and plastic smiles.
None of it sounds like
the slow bleed of my heartbeat
finding the right line.
My songs don’t want to be perfume,
background static for strangers
grinding and forgetting.
They want to be the thing
that hits you at three in the morning
when the room is dark
and your excuses have all gone quiet.
Inside this skull:
a thinker wired wrong,
overclocked, underrested,
a mind outrunning its own circuitry
while my chest lags behind,
bruised, gasping,
still trying to keep time
with all the noise it never asked for.
I am part genius,
part malfunction—
a brilliant circuit edged with scorch,
a soul that keeps going numb,
then waking up screaming,
still stubborn enough
to turn every new scar
into another verse.
People see the jokes, the curses,
file me under strange.
They don’t see the scaffold under each line—
the years of sitting with hurt
until it finally gave me its real name,
let me hang it on a hook.
I don’t write for trophies,
for trending tags,
for the hook you can chant drunk.
I write for the kid staring at the ceiling.
For the driver who kills the radio to think.
For the stranger who needs to hear
one ugly truth sung beautifully.
Every breath becomes a drum hit.
Every flash of memory, a riff.
Every ache in my ribs
another hook stepping forward,
raising its hand,
carrying weight for someone
who cannot speak it yet.
I am not their balance.
Not their easy middle lane.
Not sex-and-dance-and-oh-oh-oh filler.
I am the crash between thought and collapse,
the strange one in the corner
turning overload into proof
that I exist.
Until the final blackout
drops the curtain on this constant noise,
I will keep dragging stories out of the static,
building songs with a heartbeat,
with a soul,
daring the world
to pretend it doesn’t feel them.