Thirteen, fists flyin’, plates crash like thunder,

Mom noddin’ out, dad driftin’ under.

Ran from that house, cold wind like a sermon,

Prayin’ to a sky that ain’t never been observin’.

Pockets full of nothin’, dreams full of pain,

Feet bleedin’ through sneakers, still runnin’ from the chain.

Streetlights blinkin’, each flicker felt like fate,

I was a ghost with a heartbeat, lost in the state.

Met wolves in designer, promised bread from the snow,

Didn’t know death wears a smile when it’s broke.

Hand on the pack, sin heavy as the rent,

Every sale wrote guilt in the air I spent.

City nights whisper, “ain’t no saints in the slum,”

I learned survival’s a language you speak with your gun.

Yet deep in the silence, I heard destiny hum,

Said, “One day you’ll spit truth — don’t forget where you from.”

From the basement to the booth, pain sculpted my youth,

Every scar turned a lyric, every bruise became proof.

I was drownin’ in the dark, till the beat found my spark,

Now my voice paint murals from the cracks of my heart.

Concrete confessions under flickerin’ poles,

My friends traded their veins just to bargain with their souls.

I watched ’em fade slow, like graffiti in rain,

While the block kept breathin’ that repetitive pain.

Sold sins in a bag, wore shame like a crown,

The devil don’t chase — he just waits in your town.

But one night, mid cypher on a rusted stair rail,

I was spittin’ ’bout the system, how the real ones fail.

Heard a voice say, “Kid, that pain got value.”

Old head, sharp eyes, said, “Let the mic heal you.”

He tossed me a card and said, “Come record that rage,”

Next mornin’ I stepped in — first time off the cage.

Walls smelled of vinyl, the booth like confession,

He said, “Rhymes ain’t just words, they reflections of lessons.”

So I bled on the mic, turned my wounds into gold,

Didn’t know yet — that verse saved my soul.

From the basement to the booth, pain sculpted my youth,

Every scar turned a lyric, every bruise became proof.

I was drownin’ in the dark, till the beat found my spark,

Now my voice paint murals from the cracks of my heart.

Nights in that studio, ink stains on my dreams,

Tryna rewrite my fate through these notebook seams.

He said, “Rap ain’t fashion, it’s survival in bars,

It’s the scripture of the streets, it’s the gospel of scars.”

I learned patience, pain, the poetry of loss,

Every rhyme I wrote was a cross that I tossed.

He showed me structure, melody, discipline, soul,

Told me, “Own your truth, that’s how legends unfold.”

Couch was my bed, ramen noodles my crown,

But I felt more royal than kings downtown.

Started buildin’ my name, from whispers to sound,

People felt my truth, ’cause I bled it profound.

Still haunted by nights with my stomach on mute,

But I found peace in pain — made the hurt absolute.

He said, “Kid, your scars? That’s your proof of grace.”

So I rapped till my trauma became my faith.

From the basement to the booth, pain sculpted my youth,

Every scar turned a lyric, every bruise became proof.

I was drownin’ in the dark, till the beat found my spark,

Now my voice paint murals from the cracks of my heart.

Now I’m standin’ on stage, crowd hums my confession,

Every line a redemption, every hook a lesson.

Seein’ kids with the same pain behind their stare,

I tell ’em, “You ain’t cursed, just prepared for repair.”

Mama’s sober now, the past feels distant,

Forgiveness hit slow, but the peace stay persistent.

I still write for the lost, the unheard, the bruised,

For the kid in the mirror I once almost refused.

My brother in the booth? The one who believed —

He gave me more than beats, he gave me reprieve.

He said, “You ain’t born to be trapped by your scars,”

Now my story stretch miles, carved in sixteen bars.

From the gutter to the glow, I embody that truth,

From the dirt of my pain grew the flower of proof.

Yeah, that runaway kid still lives in my sound,

But now he wears crowns made from battlegrounds.

From the basement to the booth, pain sculpted my youth,

Every scar turned a lyric, every bruise became proof.

Now the same streets that once cursed my name,

Echo my story — from struggle to flame.