This is for the nights I bled on the beat,
for every scar that the city won’t see—
I spit the ash of the promises they broke,
smoke in my lung, hope in my throat.
This is for the kid they forgot in the crawlspace,
now I’m ghost in the booth, got the bass like a call-to-arms;
fuck your calm, I’m the storm in the palms
of the gods I never believed, still I carve their names in my arms.