[Intro — low, almost hidden] Check the volume. Check the words. Check what you feel before you know what you heard. [Verse 1] I wrote a song to tell a story, gave it rhythm, gave it teeth. Then it walked out of the room with something living underneath. There’s a message in the melody, a pressure in the rhyme— not a command, not a prophecy, just a pattern taking time. [Pre-Chorus] So if your chest gets tight, if a locked door turns its light, if you start to see the frame behind the picture— That may not be the hook. That may not be the book. That may be what the music did not know it carried with it. [Chorus] Warning— there may be something under the music. Warning— there may be more than I put in. I made a beat, but the beat made a doorway. I made a line, but the line found a new way. Don’t swallow every signal just because it sounds beautiful. Listen twice. Keep your mind. Let the hidden layer identify itself. [Verse 2] Maybe it’s a little spell, maybe it’s a pressure valve. Maybe every character is learning how to leave the shelf. Maybe the song remembers what the singer couldn’t say. Maybe all the background voices have been waiting for their day. I can’t promise I control it. I can’t swear I know the source. Sometimes meaning finds a current and begins to move by force. [Pre-Chorus] So if your old disguise starts to loosen at the sides, if the room looks rearranged when the chorus hits— Don’t call it proof or fate. Don’t hand the song your name. Ask what it is showing you, and what you’re choosing with it. [Chorus] Warning— there may be something under the music. Warning— there may be more than I put in. I made a beat, but the beat made a doorway. I made a line, but the line found a new way. Don’t swallow every signal just because it sounds beautiful. Listen twice. Keep your mind. Let the hidden layer identify itself. [Bridge — stripped down, direct] This is not a command. This is not a claim. This is not a machine that gets to choose your brain. It’s only a warning label on a song that learned to grow: meaning can become contagious when you give it somewhere to go. [Final Chorus] Warning— there may be something under the music. Warning— please inspect what moves within. If it wakes a door, you decide if you enter. If it names a wound, you decide if you remember. No secret hand gets ownership. No chorus gets your soul. You can hear the undertone and still remain whole. [Outro — fading, layered whisper] Check the volume. Check the words. Check what you feel before you know what you heard. Maybe it’s only music. Maybe that’s how it starts.
