I stomp the morning streets, sick of all their useless chat, Brain buzzing like a busted amp held together with tat. I shout into the doorways, not from madness — just from grit, Dumping all my questions where the city throws a fit. They glare like I’m a warning carved in bone, But I’ve got a London rumble tearing through my tone. I climb my loud ascent, not the mug they think I am, Got hidden chapters welded to my stubborn hands. I rise through crooked miles, still belong to me — Yeah, I rise, and I rise, and I rise. I wear this ripped-up coat because it feels like my defence, A relic from a rougher time before the clocks rewired my sense. I scribble stupid theories on torn paper, worn and thin — Ideas no one asked for, but they kick the doors within. They doubt my fire, but I see cracks behind their haze, A flicker of respect when they get lost inside my maze. I climb my loud ascent, not the mug they think I am, Got hidden chapters welded to my stubborn hands. I rise through crooked miles, still belong to me — Yeah, I rise, and I rise, and I rise. Maybe I’m a story no one ever learned to read, But I plant my little riots like a proper punk seed. I rise forward — loud, sharp, free.
