I’m back on the block where the ghosts still haunt
cracked concrete, spray-painted dreams
mamma’s porch light hummin’ like a hymn
I’m the prodigal son with a Grammy in my backpack
still duckin’ sirens, still breathin’ in wet paint fumes
every corner’s a chorus, every bruise a bassline
tell the skyline I never left, I just grew
Chicago water in my veins, cold like the truth
Martin sing the hook—let the lake cry for me
I’m home, I’m whole, I’m holy, I’m broke, I’m free