In the garage
where the smoke turns to stained glass.
Amen to the messy.
I don't chase clean, I chase true-in-the-moment,
thumbprint on the waveform, dirt on the omen.
Everybody wants polish—nah, give me the scar,
give me the"still showed up" under neon and tar.
I been late to the party, but I brought the bass,
brought a laugh in my pocket and a bruise on my faith.
If the world's a machine, then I'm oil in the gears—
not to stop it just to make it sound sincere.
And I don't need a halo—
I need a head-nod,
a little"you good?"
after the hard part.
This is garage gospel—heavy on the heart,
light in the mouth, but it tears you apart.
If I'm a mess, then I'm honest,
if I'm lost, then I'm on it.
We don't need perfect to feel it land—
just a hand on the rail and a beat in the sand.
Garage gospel let it ring.
Garage gospel everything.
They sell solutions in a bottle and a banner,
I sell a moment where the noise gets manners.
I been broke in the mind but rich in the spark,
saltin' small seconds, makin' dark feel marked.
I keep receipts in the smoke of the synths,
fingerprint rhythm—let the evidence rinse.
If love's a math, it's compounding in silence,
not in the headlines— in the"stay a while" violence.
How you guys doin'?
you doin' alright?
Okay.
Let's keep going.
This is garage gospel—heavy on the heart,
light in the mouth, but it tears you apart.
If I'm a mess, then I'm honest,
if I'm lost, then I'm on it.
We don't need perfect to feel it land—
just a hand on the rail and a beat in the sand.
Garage gospel let it ring.
Garage gospel amen to everything.
Amen to the messy.
