I dream in rhythms, live in rhyme,
But every note now costs me time.
A melody burns inside my chest
But chasing it denies me rest.
A song inside, aching to be free
Yet walls of money silence me.
They say, "Just try, just push, just start,"
But art today needs a wealthy heart and pocket
No mic, no gear, no fancy space
Just empty rooms and borrowed grace.
I mix on apps with broken screens,
While others climb through moneyed means.
The labels nod at pretty lies,
They buy their artists, filter cries.
But what of those who fight alone
With cracked guitars and unpaid phones
They told me I was almost there
What they never told me is fame requires money
"Almost" pft,maybe when I die in debts
The studio's rent is more than life,
So I trade food for chords at night.
Streaming pays in half a cent,
And gigs demand what I don't rent.
They scroll through lives with glossy sound,
But no one sees me underground.
I scream in songs they'll never hear,
Because my voice costs more each year.
They say, "Art's pure, just do it raw,"
But still they judge what's dressed in flaw.
They praise the stars, the polished dreams,
But shun the ones held up by seams.
Do they know what it means to ache?
To write a verse while stomachs shake?
To sell old shoes to buy a mic,
And pray one view will spark the strike?
I've begged my soul for one more line,
I've watched my fire turn into spine.
And though I drown in quiet doubt,
I still press play. I still pour out.
Because no price can cage my will,
Though bills and shame attempt to kill.
I'll sing in alleys, hum in trains
And bleed my lyrics through the rain.
I still press play
One day they'll hear a song that shakes,
And think it bloomed without the breaks.
But only I will ever know
The cost it took to make it grow.