Red Light Gospel

Out of the Cave

I wasn't raised with lullabies. I was raised with exits, sirens and silence, and I learned to pack before I learned to pray. So I kept notebooks under the bed and filled them with psalms I was too young to say. When I rap now it ain't music, it's evidence. You don't owe anyone forgiveness to be allowed to survive.

Lyrics

> I wasn’t raised with lullabies.
I was raised with exits.
With sirens. With silence.

Learned to pack before I prayed.
Learned to run before I wept.

So don’t ask me for forgiveness.
Ask me what I saw.

> The house had deadbolts on memories,
Razor-wire prayers, and unspoken penalties,
Every door creaked like it knew my name,
Every mirror cracked when it saw my shame.

I learned the code—
Smile straight, nod slow,
Lie clean, bleed low,
Hide bruises where light don’t go.

Mama lit her cigarette like a gun,
Ash like communion, silence like a nun,
Men came like commercials, all flash, no soul,
Left her hollow with a mouth full of coal.

And I—
I kept notebooks under the bed,
Filled ‘em with psalms I was too young to have said,
I sang pain in a whisper, gospel in code,
A survivor’s beat in a kill zone flow.

> 🔥 I sang a red light gospel
To a God who never showed
Carried prayers in plastic baggies
And truth I never owed

I wasn’t built for safety
I was trained to stay alive
And every verse I bleed now
Is the reason I survived 🔥

> Red light—don’t stop.
Blood right—don’t rot.
Pray wrong—get shot.
I danced with ghosts in the parking lot.

Halo cracked, tongue tied.
I made church from a fistfight.

You call that a childhood?
I call that training.

> I wore “normal” like a hostage mask,
Learned to pass the test, never ask.

Learned to laugh with a wire in my jaw,
Hugged like a victim, spoke like law.

School was camouflage. Home was static.
I wrote love letters to panic.

Sunday mornings were for hiding,
Monday mornings were for bleeding quiet.

I had dreams like stolen bikes—
Fast, broken, always gone by night.

No bedtime stories.
Just whispers from Puff:
“Write it down. Keep it rough.”

So I carved my hymns in barbed wire font,
Every verse a place I haunt.

And when I rap now?
It’s not music—it’s evidence.

> 🔥 I sang a red light gospel
To the ghosts that burned my name
To the boy who danced in silence
And never asked for fame

I was born without a finish line
But damn, I learned to drive
And every verse I spit now
Is the reason I'm alive 🔥

> I ain’t a sinner—I’m a document.
A living affidavit. An exorcist’s lament.

You locked me in basements,
Laughed at my songs,
Now I sell shadows in stadiums,
Sing pain where it belongs.

I’m not your shame.
I’m the blood in the font.
The reason your silence haunts.

C is for Charlie.
C is for Crack.
C is for Comeback—
And I ain't lookin' back.

I baptized my trauma in gasoline.
Lit the match. Walked clean.

This ain’t therapy.
This is scripture.
Written in fire, framed in fracture.

So don’t ask what happened.
Just listen close—
The echo you hear?
That’s the voice you never chose.

> I had rooms no one entered.
Bruises with names.

But rhythm kept knocking…
And now the whole house flames.

> 🔥 This is my red light gospel
To the mirror that cracked in fear
To the rage they called disorder
To the boy who disappeared

No I wasn’t born for comfort
But I damn sure learned to fight
And every song I spit now
Is the reason there’s still light. 🔥

> This ain’t forgiveness.
It’s just the sound of surviving right.
Charlie C.
Still lit.

Words and music: Romian Nazlab · A Bonfire Production