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🎶Music🎶

All lyrics are written by me — born from the things I needed to say but had nowhere to put, no one to hear. So I built a space where they could exist. Each song is a kind of survival: not noise, but breath with direction.

I use A.I. to help me shape and produce these tracks. Not to replace my voice, but to amplify it — a tool for clarity, not substitution. The emotions, the words, the intention — that’s all mine.

 

If you’ve ever talked into the void, if you’ve ever wanted to be heard — these songs are for you.

Big Thinky Ouchey

"Big Thinky Ouchey" stands as an intriguing multifaceted cartoon-noir exploration that delves deeply into the intricate and often perplexing complexities of-stage capitalism. distinctive song takes a closer look at the frequently absurd nature of depression presenting it in a raw, glitchy manner that truly its essence.

 

It serves not only as a reflection of my personal struggles and experiences but also functions as a form of documentation rather than merely a desperate plea for help. Throughout the, there is a remarkable skill in balancing elements of humor and reality, as it effortlessly transitions between moments that are light-hearted and amusing, and others resonate with profound realism and deeply impactful emotions.

The lyrics are simple, " Me read book. Big smart man. Say "make goal." Me say "can’t." Goal feel fake. Life feel blur. Me want nap, not future."  Short almost caveman like communication fired at rapid speed almost to the point of incomprehensibility, Thats what it's like being inside my head. This weird dichotomy of being to dumb to form complete sentences, yet being able to process information and spit out ideas faster than my tongue can articulate

It's wild. 

Bottles of Piss

“Bottles of Piss” is a punchy, pop-punk anthem that hits like a Toronto streetcar—loud, off-schedule, and aimed straight at your dignity. I wrote it after spending five months living in a tent in Queen’s Park, scraping by on church meals, cold coffee, and bureaucratic silence. I used to study at U of T. Now I haunt it—charging my phone at Kelly Library while pretending I’m still part of the world that used to see me.

The song is deceptively upbeat: catchy hooks, bouncing rhythm, bubblegum energy. But it’s a bait-and-switch. That melody is the mask—the cheerful posture you’re expected to adopt if you want to be seen as “helpable.” Smile, nod, perform gratitude. Just don’t smell, complain, or exist too loudly.

Underneath the sugar-coating, the song’s a gut-punch. It asks what happens to a person when every public service says, “If you’re in distress, call the Distress Centre,” and then that’s the end of the story. No bathroom. No shelter. No reply. Just you, a nylon tent, and the ever-present question: Where do all these people put their bottles of piss?

It’s not a metaphor. It’s a logistical nightmare. It’s also a symptom of a system designed not to care. “Bottles of Piss” is about survival, but not the noble kind. It’s about the absurd, humiliating, unglamorous reality of being made invisible—then blamed for disappearing.

D.a.r.v.o Attack Incoming

its weird how quickly abusers pick up on the language used to describe them and weaponize it against the very people who developed it as a way of resisting abuse.

 

This song is about calling out someone's abusive behaviour and how they pre-emptively avoid scrutiny by accusing you of using DARVO (Deflect, Attack, Reverse Victim and Offender).

 

Its a kinda of meta-DARVO so if it gets confusing who is the abuser and who is the victim, or if DARVO is an attack or "DARVO is LOVE, DARVO its SAFETY" then you are in the right space.

 

Dont worry about it, Cause no matter what you say it will be used as evidence that you are somehow the bad guy.

 

To anyone who had to learn to get comfortable being labeled the bad guy in exchange for demanding decency.... You're making it all about you again. You are so selfish. ;)

Citrus & Spit

Citrus and Spit is a song about sex work, control, and the distance between being watched and being known. It’s about the way your body becomes a product, the way your silence is mistaken for consent, and how performance becomes survival when dignity isn't part of the deal.

This isn’t a redemption arc. It’s not empowerment dressed up for export. It’s documentation.


The lemon stings. The spit sticks. One sharp, one bitter. Neither asks permission.

It’s about the space between “yes” and “get it over with.” About smiling while your fists are clenched beneath the sheets. About knowing you could destroy someone, and choosing not to, because your own destruction was already in motion. This song is for anyone who’s ever been touched like an object and blamed for making it look easy. It’s for the ones who made art out of survival and never called it beautiful.

 

Not a confession. Not a flex.
Just the record.

Don't You Dare Hope

Don’t You Dare Hope isn’t a song—it’s a warning shot. It’s the sound of someone who’s been gutted by well-meaning lies and is done pretending that “hope” is a virtue when it’s weaponized to pacify. This track isn’t asking for your optimism. It’s demanding your accountability.

Born from the wreckage of institutional failure, personal betrayal, and the relentless cruelty of systems that call their negligence “unfortunate,” the song pulls no punches. These lyrics aren’t poetic metaphors for sadness. They’re bite marks. They come from watching people smile and nod while your life collapses, from being told that “things will get better” by the very people who refuse to lift a hand to make it so.

Don’t You Dare Hope spits in the face of the inspirational poster industry. It’s a sonic act of civil disobedience. A refusal to go quietly. A refusal to accept sentiment where structural repair is required.


Because when everything else is taken, the last thing they’ll try to sell you is hope.


And that’s when you say:
Don’t you f*ing dare.**

Dear Drew Barrymore

This song isn’t about Drew Barrymore.
And at the same time, it’s very much about Drew Barrymore.

It’s about what she symbolizes, this strange, aching blend of public softness and survival. A face you’ve seen cry on camera more times than your own mother. A woman who smiles like she’s been through five apocalypses and still insists on setting the table for tea.

I wrote this song as a kind of emotional misfire. Not knowing where to send the feelings, I sent them to Drew. Or the idea of her. Because sometimes we don’t need a solution, we need someone who looks like they might care, even if they can’t actually do anything about it.

It’s a letter dressed as a song. A breakdown hiding behind good manners. A projection, maybe, but an honest one.

 

This isn’t satire.
It’s not quite a joke.
It’s what happens when you talk to a stranger because the people you love feel further away than television.

Detached Oracle

Detached Oracle is the song I wrote for every conversation where I wasn’t allowed to have a feeling without being told it was “low vibe.” For every time I was patronized in the name of peace, corrected in the name of care, or dismissed with a crystal-clear condescension dressed up as “boundaries.”

It’s about the kind of person who floats above harm and calls it healing. Who speaks in affirmations, not accountability. Who brands their detachment as wisdom while quietly upholding the very hierarchies they claim to transcend.

This song isn’t subtle. It’s for the ones who were silenced by serenity. For anyone who’s been blessed, ghosted, and spiritually gaslit in the same breath. It’s a critique, yes, but also a release. I’m not trying to be diplomatic.

 

I’m trying to make it clear: silence is not grace when it’s used to avoid discomfort. Stillness isn’t depth when it’s afraid of truth.

And love, real love, listens.


It doesn’t hover. It doesn’t vanish. It shows up.
Even when the vibe is messy. Especially then.

Dysfunction

Dysfunction is what they called it. Not the trauma, not the abandonment, not the structural neglect, but me. My response. My survival. My refusal to shut down and smile.

 

This song came from the frustration of being pathologized for having a nervous system that noticed what was wrong. For being told I was broken because I reacted to a world that breaks people and calls it normal. For being handed pills and platitudes instead of a single honest question about what had actually happened to me.

 

It’s about how easy it is to diagnose someone when you never have to understand them. How quickly pain becomes a “problem” when it doesn’t fit the script. And how medical language can be used as a shield, not to help, but to silence.

 

I’m not here to romanticize suffering. But I’m also not going to apologize for the way I stayed alive. This song isn’t about dysfunction. It’s about design. The way systems fail people, then blame them for the fallout.

 

If you're going to talk about my mind,

you better be ready to talk about what shaped it.

Envy

'Envy' is a song about the kind of longing no pride flag can cover. It’s about what happens when you survive the same storm as everyone else, but never get the glow-up, the abs, the invite, the ease.

 

Underneath the soaring vocals and shimmering synths is something darker: A confession. An accusation. A question.

 

"I don’t hate you. I just don’t know what else to do. When the thing I was told to be proud of Looks exactly like the thing that bruised me too."

 

What if pride has become performance? What if “community” just means hierarchy with better lighting? And what if the envy you feel, that bitter, silent kind that shames you for even existing, isn’t your personal failing, but the consequence of a system that rewards only one kind of healing?

 

This song holds up a mirror to gay culture and asks: Is this what we feel pride for? Or just envy with better branding? It's not rejecting Pride, just its performance.

 

A song about people who hurt, dressed in synth-pop.

Fluent In Foreign

This song is about the quiet violence of being forced to translate yourself in order to survive. Not linguistically, existentially. It’s about learning to speak in a dialect that isn’t yours, just to be let in, just to be perceived as coherent. When the cost of being heard is the burial of your native self.

Fluent in Foreign is what happens when you stop saying what’s true and start saying what works. It’s what happens when every “I’m fine” buys you a little safety. When you dress your grief in the language of growth because no one wants to hear you bleed, they want to hear you process. It’s about being rewarded for disappearing in plain sight.

They called it healing. They called it maturity. But all I did was get good at their grammar. They called me articulate, when all I’d done was gut myself into something that fit their narrative. I became understandable, and in doing so, became unrecognizable to myself.

 

This is not a song about confusion. It’s a song about betrayal, the kind where you do it to yourself because the alternative is silence. The kind where you forget how you used to sound before you learned the words that made them stay.

Homo Sacer

A defiant elegy for the erased, Homo Sacer is an anthem for those cast out, dismissed, and denied recognition. The lyrics pulse with the weight of institutional violence, legal abandonment, and the quiet horror of being rendered invisible—stripped of rights, denied protection, existing beyond the reach of justice.

The title draws from philosopher Giorgio Agamben’s concept of homo sacer—a figure from Roman law who could be killed without consequence but not sacrificed. A being excluded from both legal and sacred order. Neither fully alive nor properly dead. Reduced to “bare life”—life without political value, exposed to power but abandoned by it. In modern terms: the refugee, the inmate, the psychiatric patient, the expelled. Those the law touches only to erase.

Wielding sharp, sardonic wit against a world that discards the inconvenient, the song exposes the absurdity of exile in plain sight. Homo sacer—the cursed figure, abandoned yet persistent. A ghost conviction, a case dismissed, a breath unheard. But in every rejection, there is resistance; in every attempt to erase, a refusal to disappear.

This is a battle cry for the forsaken. A testament to endurance. They may write you out of history, but history does not erase those who refuse to be silent.

Liberty Is No Essence

This song is a challenge to every myth we've been sold about freedom, that it’s fixed, granted, permanent. Liberty is No Essence dismantles the idea of liberty as a static gift handed down from power. Instead, it reframes liberty as relational, something made in the tension between people, in the space between silence and speech, between presence and absence, between justice and its performance.

It’s not about slogans. It’s not about flags. It’s about what gets whispered, shared, defended when no one's watching. It’s about how freedom isn’t forged in the lawbooks of the past, but in the fragile, stubborn ways we carry each other in the present.

This song is for the ones who feel like they don’t belong to the narratives they’ve inherited. For the ones building justice not through conquest or decree, but through care. Through resistance. Through the quiet defiance of existing without permission.

Liberty isn’t a statue. It’s a gesture. It moves. It breathes. It depends on us.

My Dirty Grimy Goblin Boy

I don't catch feelings very easily.

I have never felt comfortable with the idea of someone needing me. Not wanting me, but NEED me. Because when you are essential to someone's functioning is when you can let them down in the worst ways. I don't ever want to let someone I care about down. So I never let people need me, ive always thought it was better that way for everyone. 

This was the first boy who I was not only comfortable with the idea of them needing me, but that I actually longed for another person to need me. which is why it hurt so much when he didn't. 

I am such a loser that despite everything, I would still give my left lung for this loser. I still think the world of him. I know he's kind of a dirty grimy goblin boy. And I like him exactly for how he is. Even if how he use is kind of a shithead who is mean to me.

 

I gotta get better taste in men..

Respect, WTF!?

This song is about the gap between what people say and what they actually mean. About how “respect” gets weaponized to end conversations, not deepen them. I wrote Respect WTF!? because I’ve been on the receiving end of too many hollow gestures, people nodding along, smiling gently, saying “I hear you,” while doing everything possible to avoid actually engaging with what I said.

There’s this idea floating around that respect means being nice. Agreeable. Soft. Silent. But to me, respect isn’t about tone, it’s about willingness. The willingness to stay in the conversation when it gets uncomfortable. The willingness to ask questions, to be challenged, to admit you might not have the full picture.

This song pushes back against that. It’s not about being combative for the sake of it. It’s about saying: I don’t want your politeness if it comes at the cost of truth. I don’t want your tolerance if it can’t survive friction. I don’t want to be treated “with respect” if that just means you’re too scared to disagree with me out loud.

If you say you value me,
Then show up.

 

Rodeo In A Refinery

Rodeo in a Refinery is the song I wrote when I got tired of watching the same performance on repeat, cowboy cosplay in a boardroom, pipelines passed off as personality, and “freedom” wielded like a branding iron.

 

I grew up in a province that calls itself proud while people suffocate in silence. Where leaders pose as rough-edged saints while cutting the very systems that keep people breathing, literally and otherwise. I’ve heard too many speeches about resilience from people who’ve never had to be.

 

This song doesn’t ask for understanding. It spells things out. The hypocrisy. The violence under the virtue-signalling. The way austerity is spun into morality. How “respectable” people call it policy while whole communities fall through the cracks.

 

But I didn’t want to stop there. The final verse opens up space for something else. Not a dream, but a direction, a version of this place where land back isn’t a threat, and care isn’t treated like a character flaw. Where “Alberta Strong” actually means something other than denial with a PR team.

 

I’m not here to flatter power. I’m here to name what it won’t.

And I’m done pretending the smog is some kind of sunset.

She Called It Love 

This song is about my mother, and I think it speaks for itself. 

The Good I Didn't Choose

The Good I Didn’t Choose is a song about the cost of hesitation. It’s not about the damage we do outright, but the damage we allow by doing nothing. It centers the kind of moral failure that rarely makes headlines: when we stay quiet, step aside, or look, not because we’re cruel, but because it’s easier.

The lyrics follow that uncomfortable space between guilt and self-justification, where we tell ourselves it wasn’t our job, our fault, our fight. But deep down, we know we could have chosen otherwise. The song leans into that tension, acknowledging the pressure of circumstance without letting it excuse the consequences.

Stylistically, it blends the raw honesty of folk with the lyrical cadence of rap. The result is a track that unfolds like a story told low around a fire, rhythmic, grounded, and deeply personal. There’s no dramatic climax, no grand redemption arc. Just a voice tracing the shape of a choice that wasn’t made, and the quiet, lasting effect of its absence.

It’s a song about ownership, not of the worst we’ve done, but of the good we left undone.

The Good Will

What if doing the right thing had no reward, no audience, no outcome, no applause? Would you still do it? “The Good Will” is a meditation on moral integrity in its purest form.

 

Inspired by Kant’s idea that a good will is good not because of what it achieves, but because of what it is, the song rejects utility, validation, and external metrics. It asks what it means to act ethically in a world obsessed with results. It's not about feeling good. It’s about doing good like it’s your job, even when no one’s watching.

 

The 'Good' described here is the same good referred to when your mother shouted "And remember to take your GOOD jacket!" she wasn't talking about the most expensive jacket, or the best looking jacket. It was the jacket that did its job the best, the one that kept you warm and protected you from the cold. The jacket that served its purpose the best, and didn't expect anything in return.

 

This Good doesn’t sparkle. It doesn’t need praise. But it shows up, takes the hit, and gets the job done. Again and again. The good will isn’t glamorous. It’s not a vibe. It’s not self-care. It’s a choice you make when everything else falls apart. Not because it’s easy. Not because it pays off. Because it’s right.

The Jokes On Me

A sardonic unraveling of reality’s cruel absurdity, 'The Joke’s on Me' dives headfirst into the chaos of a world that refuses to make sense. With razor-sharp wit and theatrical frustration, the lyrics paint a picture of a thinker betrayed by reason itself—where logic is a flimsy illusion, rules bend like warped reflections, and fate plays a rigged game with loaded dice.

 

Every attempt to grasp truth slips through shifting hands, every certainty is rewritten mid-sentence. It's a cosmic prank, a surrealist nightmare where the joke isn't just on me. I am the joke.

 

The song crackles with frustration, irony, and just a touch of madness, demanding to know: if life is a trickster’s game, then what’s the punchline? A wry anthem for those who’ve stared too long into the absurd and found themselves laughing, The Joke’s on Me turns existential dread into dark, knowing humor—because sometimes, when the world makes no sense, all that’s left to do is embrace the joke.

The Lines I Drew

This song is about boundaries, the kind that aren’t theoretical, but lived. It was written after a night when I told the police I didn’t want to talk. I asked them to leave. They didn’t. They opened my front door and stepped into my home anyway.

The Lines I Drew is a protest in poetry, a refusal to let that kind of trespass be normalized. It's not just about police. It's about anyone who hears a boundary and decides it’s optional. It’s about the violence of being told “we care” while your lines are crossed like they’re chalk on a sidewalk, meant to be washed away.

Some of us have had to carve safety out of fear. Some of us learned that “no” only matters if someone chooses to hear it. This song is for those people, the ones still standing, still drawing lines.

The Lion Eats The Gazelle

This song is about accepting what doesn’t feel acceptable. Not resisting it. Not reframing it. Not looking for silver linings. Just letting it be exactly as bleak, as empty, and as irreversible as it is.

The Lion Eats the Gazelle isn’t about hope. It’s about the moment after hope, when the story ends, the arc fails, and there’s no moral to pull from the wreckage. It’s about accepting reality without narrative. Pain without purpose. Loss without compensation.

I wrote this song because I got tired of pretending that meaning always follows suffering. That if we just reframe our trauma, sit still long enough, chant the right words, or forgive hard enough, something redeeming will emerge. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes the lion eats the gazelle, and no one learns a lesson. The lion just eats. The gazelle just dies. And the world keeps going.

This isn’t a rejection of radical acceptance, it’s the dark core of it. The part no one wants to talk about because it doesn’t comfort, it doesn’t heal, it doesn’t even help. But it’s honest. And sometimes, that has to be enough.

If this song makes you uncomfortable, good. If it leaves a bad taste in your mouth, even better.

The Only Thing That Moves When I Do

A love song to my home, the one place that kept me sane when no one else would. When I said I was unwell, it didn’t panic or punish. It made space. When I said I needed beauty, it offered me surface. When I needed to prove I existed, it gave me walls. And that’s more justice than any tribunal has ever offered me.

It's about reclaiming a sliver of agency in a world that erases, distorts, or ignores you. It isn’t a song about decorating your space, it's about surviving inside it. When every social structure collapses into silence or suspicion, when your needs are too inconvenient to accommodate, when your words are too complex to be believed, the placement of a lamp becomes an act of testimony. The choice to shift a chair, to repaint a wall, to fold a blanket just so, these become rituals of self-recognition. Each object moved is a refusal to disappear.

​​​

The woman in love

The Woman in Love" is a bitter, lyrical unraveling of romantic disillusionment. What starts as mourning turns to sharp clarity, this is not your expected heartbreak, it’s a revelation.

 

The song traces the emotional spiral from hope to disappointment to defiant sarcasm, as the narrator reflects on falling for someone more ordinary, and more selfish, than they first appeared.

 

This track explores the emotional labor of love, the myth of male greatness, and the ache of realizing you gave too much to someone who never knew what to do with it.

 

It’s about release, not about regret. For everyone who's ever built a shrine to a man who thought he was a god. Dont we look dumb now.

Whats Fair

"What’s Fair?" is a quiet storm of a song, part lament, part challenge, and part open hand. Written from a place of exhaustion and quiet resolve, it asks a deceptively simple yet deeply resonant question: What does fairness look like when the system is meant to serve but refuses to listen? When silence becomes more costly than compromise? When dignity is rationed, not distributed, and those who need it most are left waiting for scraps?

The verses tear at your heart like someone who can’t stop trying, despite the futility, despite the resistance. It’s the sound of fighting for recognition, even when the world won’t see you. The lyrics build with intensity, pulling you into the storm of frustration, of longing, of being unheard.

The chorus hits like a question you can’t unhear. It’s not just a question; it’s a challenge to the system, to those who maintain the status quo, to anyone who would rather ignore the truth: What is fair when those in power refuse to engage, and those without power are left to fight for crumbs?

 

If you’ve ever been too much, or not enough, or simply inconvenient to help, this song is for you. It’s a raw reflection on the exhausting reality of asking for fairness in a world that prefers to look the other way.

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