Unbroken Symphony

VERSE ONE

Your veins hum a war-torn melody,

cracked lips sing hymns of rust and rain.

They tried to bury you in their “almost,”

but you bloom hurricanes.

Remember the year you folded yourself into origami?

A crane with paper cuts, hiding in the creases.

Now you unfold—a wildfire in human skin,

every scar a roadmap to the places you’ve outgrown.

PRE-CHORUS

Don’t let them name your chaos “broken.”

Call it unfinished symphony, call it holy.

The cracks in your armor? That’s where the light gets in—

and where the fight gets out.

Did you think the night would last forever?

Dawn carves its promise into your scars.

CHORUS

Let your chaos be a compass, love—

the world will bend to hear you roar.

Tattoo this skyline on your spine:

Scars are stardust. You’ve survived before.

(Repeat)

VERSE TWO

They sold you silence, but here’s the truth:

a scar is just a song waiting for its verse.

You wore their doubt like a too-tight coat,

stitched with threads of “not enough.”

But listen—

The night gnashes its teeth, yet you laugh louder,

rewriting the dark, line by blistering line.

Your hands, once trembling, now clutch the pen

that drafts galaxies from the ink of old wounds.

This is how phoenixes practice resurrection—

first, they smolder. Then, they rewrite the sky.

BRIDGE

I’ll be the rhythm when your bones grow tired,

the hum beneath the static, the chord you can’t untie.

No requiem here—just your pulse, loud and unashamed,

echoing, I am not what broke me.

(Whispered) Say it again.

Louder. Let the walls tremble with your truth.

VERSE THREE

You were the ghost in your own story once,

haunting hallways of “what if” and “never.”

Now you’re the architect, building temples from rubble,

each brick a rebellion, each window an eye staring down the storm.

Let the thunder clap.

You’ve memorized the script of survival—

how to turn “collapse” into “collision course,”

how to wear your shadows like a crown.

This is not a elegy—it’s a revolution.

Your heartbeat, the drum. Your breath, the anthem.

CHORUS

Let your chaos be a compass, love—

the world will bend to hear you roar.

Tattoo this skyline on your spine:

Scars are stardust. You’ve survived before.

MUSICAL BREAK

(Instrumental crescendo: raw guitar riffs, a drumbeat like a heartbeat, layered with a haunting vocal hum. Imagine a storm pausing mid-scream to listen to your voice.)

SPOKEN WORD INTERLUDE

You ask, “What if I’m too fractured to fix?”

Child, haven’t you heard?

Kintsugi gold gleams brightest in the breaks.

You’re not a vase—you’re a mosaic of battles won,

a cathedral of “still here.”

Let them call you “too much.”

Too much fire, too much thunder.

Too much alive.

VERSE FOUR

They’ll tell you to quiet your thunder,

to smooth your edges into something palatable.

Refuse.

Let your voice crack continents,

let your rage be a lullaby for the silenced.

You’re no whispered apology—

you’re the boom of a bassline in an empty room,

the anthem of the almost-erased.

The world needs your kind of noise:

unruly, untamed, unbroken.

CHORUS

Let your chaos be a compass, love—

the world will bend to hear you roar.

Tattoo this skyline on your spine:

Scars are stardust. You’ve survived before.

OUTRO

So ink this truth where the world can see:

You are the storm—and the lighthouse, baby,

welcome home.

Now tilt your chin to the sky and let the rain

wash away every name they gave you.

You’re not a wound. You’re a war cry.

You’re not lost. You’re the map.

Carry this anthem in your ribs.

When doubt comes knocking, sing it louder.