This is a break up song. They lifted you up and then left you fallin and didnt even stay to watch you hit the ground. 

broken in the air ft. Kaiika

This song was written watching someone I loved stuck in depression. It's the words I wanted to say but they didn't wanna hear. 

stand-by

“The Dreamer” – a story i'm living.

To anyone who’s chased something, lost it, came back bruised but still believing—this is for us.

Lyrics and Concept by Cleo Antaeus.
This is an original work—written from truth, wrapped in melody.
Please do not copy, sample, or share without credit or consent.
Honor the process. Protect the art.

© 2025 Cleo Antaeus. All rights reserved.

The Dreamer

© 2025 Cleo. All rights reserved. Created April 25, 2025.

I’m the one that’ll call you 10 times until you “answer my call.”
Blame it on my attachment style.
Blame it on love.
Blame it on needing you more than my own peace.
Either way — pick up.

answer my call

Call Me Cleo” is a celebration of who I am —
and all the versions of me that got laughed at, doubted, or misunderstood along the way.

It’s a little funny call-out to every time my name got flipped, twisted, joked about —
and it’s a big, loud love letter to my inner child who kept dreaming anyway.

This song is for the barefoot boy on the pavement.
This song is for the man standing here now.

Thank you for listening. Thank you for seeing me. 🖤

CALL ME CLEO

California Was Never Meant For Love

for anyone who’s ever tried to hold on to something that was already slipping.
for anyone who still calls it home.

—cleo

© 2025 Cleo. All rights reserved.

Written, crafted, and self-released by Cleo Antaeus Traylor
Unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or use of this recording or artwork is prohibited.
This work is protected under copyright law.

California Was Never Meant For Love

Plastic Love
For when they loved the idea of you but weren’t ready for something real.

© 2025 Cleo Antaeus. All rights reserved.
Written & Crafted by Cleo Antaeus.
Self-released.


Plastic Love

starchild.
for the ones who never fully landed.
who ask too many questions.
who feel everything at once.
i wrote this on a day i felt both cosmic and out of place.
like i remembered something my body knew before i was taught to forget.
if that’s you too—this one’s yours.

© 2025 Cleo Antaeus. All Rights Reserved.
Written by Cleo Antaeus. Produced using Suno AI.
Crafted with heart, memory, and machine—this song blends my lived experience with new tools of expression. Whether sung, spoken, or synthesized, the story is mine.


Star child

“The lotus flower blooms most beautifully from the deepest and thickest mud.”
—Nichiren Daishonin

That teaching has shaped me.

This song is a reflection of what it means to embrace all of life—not just the joy, but the mess, the stillness, the shadow. I’ve been unearthing old pain, rewriting my story, and learning to trust every part of my journey. Even the parts I used to run from.

Lotus Flower is about becoming.
About blooming in your own time, in your own way—without shame.
It’s not always pretty. But it’s always real.

⸻

© 2025 Cleo Antaeus. All Rights Reserved.
Written by Cleo Antaeus

lotus flower

“God Don’t Answer Me No More” is a raw, reverent heartbreak in the form of broken gospel.
It’s a song about spiritual abandonment—but whispered, wailed, and wounded in a way that feels sacred. Not angry. Just hollow. Just real.

Cleo writes from the gut, where belief meets bruising.
This isn’t a crisis of faith—it’s the silence after the crisis.
You can feel the kitchen light. The aching knees. The ghost of devotion.

The production is minimal but cinematic—ambient pads, cracked vinyl textures, and choir echoes that sound like they’re trying to fill a church that’s lost its roof. The hook hits like a resigned altar call: no thunder, just static. Just floorboards. Just a soul on mute.

It’s a gospel song for people who still pray—but with doubt in their throat.

“I cry in tongues,
but the ceiling’s bored.”

“God don’t answer me—
not like before.”

This is soul music in its purest sense—not a genre, but a condition.

God Don't Answer Me No More

Clear Sky came from the fog.
No chorus. No fix. Just fragments and breath.
A mantra rose: “Trying is living, even when I’m still.”
That was enough.

By the end, one truth:
I’m worthy. Just for being here.

Clear Skies

“Unfinished” is a voice memo turned mantra—a stripped confession of what it means to show up without performance, without polish, and still call it presence. Set in a quiet room of tape hiss and breath, it follows the emotional arc of a soul learning to stay—even when it’s not chosen, even when it’s small.

The song resists spectacle. Instead, it leans into soft truth: the ache of overthinking, the sacredness of showing up anyway, the courage it takes to not disappear.

It’s not a perfect vocal. It’s a real one.
And that’s the point.

This isn’t about being finished.
It’s about being still here.

Unfinished

“Breadcrumbs” is a hungry confession wrapped in a slick, sultry beat—part late-night craving, part emotional call-out. It flips flirtation into frustration, exploring the thin line between mutual attraction and emotional starvation.

The lyrics bite back at half-love and the kind of connection that tastes good at first… but never feeds you. It’s about wanting depth when all you’re getting is crumbs.

Equal parts playful and pointed, this track rides that tension between sexual appetite and spiritual longing—between what you felt, and what they only pretended to give.

For anyone who’s ever been teased, tempted, and left starving—
this one’s for you.

breadcrumbs

This is a song about growing but not growing up.

Neverland

This one came from that quiet, heavy realization—when they stop trying, and you stop pretending not to notice.
No big fight. No final text. Just distance that grew louder than love.
I didn’t write this to be deep. I wrote it because it hurt.
And sometimes naming the loss is the first way to let it go.

I guess you don't love me anymore

This song came from a moment of surrender—when pushing, holding, and hoping stopped working.
It’s about learning to trust the drift.
Letting go of control.
Letting time carry what you can’t fix.

It’s not a sad song.
It’s an exhale.

For anyone trying to find peace without having all the answers—this one’s for you.



Sail Away

Wrote this after one of those nights that just hit different.
The kind where you meet someone and it’s not just the words—but how they land.
It’s flirty, yeah. But also real. You’re vibin’, laughing, sharing signs like it means something.
Maybe it don’t. Maybe it do.
All I know is, they were sayin’ all the right things… and I liked how they said it.

Half English, half Tagalog. Whole feeling.
Alt-R&B with a groove you can dance to—or just sit with, windows down.


say it again

Brazilian trap meets alt-R&B—glitchy, minimal, spiritual. Feels like a freestyle at 2AM after you blocked someone. If you ever had someone treat you like an option, and you finally remembered your worth—
you’ll feel this.

I'm So Good


This one’s for the nights you don’t overthink—just feel.
It’s got that bounce in the beat, Taglish in the bars, and a flirt in the air.
“Halika na” means come here, but it’s more than that—it’s a pull, a rhythm, a dare.
Trap drums, dance floor heat, slick Tagalog hooks.
I wanted it to sound like eye contact across the room,
like somebody whispering in your ear at the right part of the song.

This ain’t deep—it’s magnetic.
If it makes you move, that’s the point.


Halika Na

i wrote this in a season where i was trying to believe what people said about me.
they’d call me beautiful, confident, strong.
but i couldn’t feel any of it.
not when i was barely holding myself together in private.

this song started as a voice note.
just me processing a moment where someone told me,
“you feel different.”
she didn’t even know what she meant—and i didn’t either.
but it stuck.
and later that night, i asked myself:
what if she wasn’t talking about how i looked…
what if she was talking about how i showed up?

this is about the gap between what people see in you
and what you’re still trying to see in yourself.
it’s not a cry for attention—it’s a confession.
and maybe a quiet prayer for repair.

“don’t call me beautiful”
isn’t about rejecting love.
it’s about asking for the kind that sees deeper.

thank you for listening.
i hope this helps someone feel less alone in their process.

—cleo


don't call me beautiful

This wasn’t written for him.
It was written for the love I’m trying to forget—
and still scared I’ll never feel again.

Another name I won’t remember. Another body I let in hoping it might stitch something back together. But I woke up just as hollow. Maybe more.

“Completely” is about that void.
The kind you try to fill with closeness, touch, noise—anything but stillness. It’s about the ache that lingers even after the high fades. It’s not really about the hookup. It’s about the one I loved so much, I still can’t look at anyone new without comparing the weight of their goodbye.

I don’t want to remember him.
But I don’t want to forget him either.
That’s the fucked up part.

This song came out of that in-between.
Of craving something real, and settling for a body.
Of praying to be seen, and performing intimacy instead.

— Cleo

Completely

“Emotional Safety” is a moody, R&B-Pop confessional about craving clarity in a world of mixed signals. With intimate vocals, hypnotic runs, and a pulsing groove, it captures what it feels like to want love and honesty—at the same time. Vulnerable, catchy, and deeply relatable, this track spirals through overthinking, self-awareness, and the hope for something real. It’s for anyone who’s ever wanted to feel safe in someone else’s presence… without having to beg for it.


Emotional Safety

🩸 NOVA RUE | Empty Hands 🩸

This one is what it felt like to give and give until there was nothing left to hold for myself. Empty Hands was me standing in the mirror, looking at every piece I gave away to people who never once asked how I was doing.

I used to think love meant overpouring — staying soft, staying quiet, being the steady ground for someone else to stand on while my own cracked beneath me. It took me too long to see that wasn’t love — it was survival. It was fear that if I stopped giving, I’d stop being needed.

I wrote this on a day when I felt the ache of that emptiness in my bones. No big heartbreak, just a quiet grief for every version of me that stayed small so someone else could feel big.
This isn’t a revenge song. It’s not bitter. It’s a promise to myself:
I don’t hold other people’s worlds anymore. I build my own.

If you’ve ever stood there with your palms open, wondering where all your pieces went — this is for you. A reminder you can pour all that love back where it belongs.

🩸 — Nova Rue

Empty Hands

🩸 NOVA RUE | Haplessly Ever After 🩸

I wrote Haplessly Ever After for the part of me that still wants a fairytale, even when I know better.
It’s the ache you carry when you realize you’re not the chosen one — not this time, not by them. It’s sitting in your room, scrolling through old messages, waiting for a phone that doesn’t ring.

This one came to me on a night when I felt stupid for wanting so much. I thought about every wish I made on people who didn’t stay, about every time I dressed up my hope just to watch it slip out the door.
And I laughed — not because it’s funny, but because it’s true. Some of us were built to love too much.

It’s not bitter. It’s not angry. It’s just a soft confession that maybe my “ever after” was never meant to be neat or pretty. Maybe it’s a little hapless — a little sad, a little sweet.
But at least it’s mine.
And at least I’m still here, humming the wish, even if no one comes to grant it.

🩸 — Nova Rue

Haplessly Ever After

✨ Safe Place is my chill Afro pop / R&B slow-groove about real connection and staying rooted in my self-worth. It’s sensual, soft, and honest — a reminder to let love unfold slowly, without losing myself to old patterns. I wrote this as a mantra for the messy parts of me: I’m gonna be okay, flaws and all, and the right connection will meet me there. For anyone unlearning, aligning, and still believing in slow, magnetic love. 🌙✨

Safe Place Ft. Sunni

“Not Ready” is a smooth R&B Afro Pop slow-burn about the moments we pray for real love — but run when it feels too safe to hold. It’s that push pull dance: wanting closeness, craving the calm, then second-guessing it when it finally arrives.

Sonically, this track rides a light, water-like groove with layered echoes and a hypnotic call-and-response hook that circles back on itself — just like the pattern it names. Soft percussion, airy harmonies, and a laid-back beat keep it intimate and rhythmic, giving the push/pull energy something to sway to.

It’s confessional but warm — a reminder that sometimes the biggest thing we have to unlearn is our fear of calm love. For anyone who’s ever asked for something real, then found themselves not quite ready when it shows up.

Featuring: Sunni
Genre: R&B / Afro Pop / Confessional Soul

All lyrics, melodies, and creative direction by Cleo Antaeus. This song is 100% original and copyright protected — no samples, no third-party claims.
© 2025 Cleo Antaeus — All rights reserved.


Push Pull (Not Ready) Feat. Sunni

🩸 NOVA RUE | Too Much, Not Enough🩸

I wrote this one on a night when my brain wouldn’t shut up.
Not poetic — just real. I kept looping the same thought: Did I say too much? Did I love too much?
It’s funny how something that felt so big in the moment ends up being the thing that drags you under.

I didn’t want the beat to be pretty — I wanted it to stutter, to glitch like my mind does.
Trap-house, UK garage, hi-hats swinging like my nerves.
I wanted you to feel like you’re stuck in that late-night warehouse, no exits, just you and the echo in your chest.

This song isn’t tidy. It’s not here to fix you or fix me.
It’s just the truth: I think about it too much. Still do.
So if you’re up at stupid hours, stuck in your own head —
I hope this keeps you company.

That’s all it was ever meant to do.
Too much. Not enough. Still here.

🩸 — Nova Rue

Too Much, Not Enough

“Bring Me The Boys” is a dark, hypnotic house track built for late-night dance floors. A pulsing four-on-the-floor beat drives a deep rolling bassline, crisp claps, and shimmering hi-hats that lock into a tight groove. Nova Rue’s dry, playful vocals chant and loop like a teasing spell, seductive and sly without ever giving it all away. The hook repeats like an incantation, turning tension into movement while drops hit with just enough restraint to keep the energy simmering. This is a neon-drenched club cut — sweaty, minimal, and a little dangerous — the kind of track that keeps you chasing the drop long after the lights come up.


Bring Me The Boys Feat. Nova Rue

A hypnotic, spiritual R&B song blending deep, syncopated beats with subtle Eastern vocal ornamentation. Sunni’s voice moves like a ritual chant — soft but commanding, slipping between physical desire and mental connection. It’s about trust, confirmation, and the sacred tension of wanting someone’s truth as much as their touch.


Vow Ft. Sunni

A raw, confessional cinematic pop ballad unpacking the ache of attachment wounds. “Anxiously Attached” feels like reading a page from a private journal — with stripped-back lo-fi drums, haunting ambient pads, and breathy, vulnerable male vocals that crack open the truth about chasing love that pulls away.

Cleo wrote this song as an honest mirror — to hold space for the parts of us that still beg for a reply, that chase the silence just to feel seen. It’s about naming the spiral, tracing it back to the first fear, and slowly learning how to stay soft when old stories scream run.

From late-night texts to childhood echoes, this song explores why we overlove, apologize too much, and keep calling it “match” when we’re really just trying not to be left alone.
It’s gentle but gritty — made for anyone learning to sit in the messy middle and feel a little less alone in it.


Anxiously Attached

They dressed me in whispers for so long — hush your edges, trim your shadow, smile but not too wide. They told me to be velvet but never flame. To take the runway in borrowed bones.

But I’m cutting through that hush like glass. Fluorescents buzzing overhead, heels singing on the floor — my reflection finally claps back. I don’t beg for the door anymore. I am the door.

Every label they stuck to my skin, I peel off — turn it into a banner that drags behind me like a bridal train, stitched from every red flag they swore would ruin me.

I am the trend they can’t buy. The hush that turned to thunder. The hush that learned to walk loud.

I don’t fold. I don’t fade. I don’t fit the frame.
I break it.

And when they say Who does she think she is?
I spin. I strut. I grin.
I show them exactly who.

This is my break– break– break– break through.
And it’s all mine.

🩸🗝️
— Nova Rue

Breakthrough

🩸 NOVA RUE | Midsomner Night Queen 🩸

They call me fleeting — a fever that tastes like neon sweat and midnight teeth. I don’t stay for dawn. I spin under strobes, lace my grin with hunger, kiss your neck before you remember what you wished for.

Tonight I’m the longest night — hips snap, sweat drips, secrets pour. I strut through the dark like it’s my birthright. My crown’s a hush you beg to keep.

I serve. I swerve. I take your breath — and then I vanish before you get too close. That’s the thing about queens — we leave you wanting more.

Category is: Midsomner Night Queen.
You better watch me while I’m here.

🩸 — Nova Rue

Midsomner Night Queen

🩸 NOVA RUE | False Kings 🩸

I wrote False Kings because I was tired of bowing to ghosts.
Tired of worshipping empty crowns they handed me in the dark — all thorn, no gold.
I grew up believing in heaven if I was good enough, in fire if I wasn’t.
I built shrines out of my doubt, let them reign over me with fear dressed up like love.

This song is a confession:
I begged. I prayed. I held tight to lies that kept me small.
I wore my guilt like a crown, let their rules break my back.
But the truth? Their thrones were built on bones that didn’t belong to me.
Their kingdoms were crumbling before I ever got there.

So I write it now — slow, like a blade in my mouth:
No more false kings.
No more prayers for empty hands.
If I’m gonna bow, I bow to the ache that made me.
If I’m gonna worship, I worship the truth that’s left.

They can keep their crowns.
I’d rather wear my ruin and call it mine.

🩸 — Nova Rue

Nova Rue

False Kings

🩸 NOVA RUE | Bring Me The Boys 🩸

This one’s just hunger — sweet, sharp, playful. I wrote it because sometimes I’m tired of asking nicely. Tired of being the ghost in the room when I’m the pulse.

So I let my tongue do the work — taste, pick, break.
Line ‘em up pretty — make ‘em beg, make ‘em cry, make ‘em laugh.
It’s not about the boys — it’s about the power of the want.

I wanted a hook that loops like a spell you can’t stop chanting.
A beat that drips sweat while you watch me grin.
This is me prowling in the dark — neon lights, sly hips, no apologies.

I don’t promise them forever — just a night to remember who’s in charge.
I’m the hush in the corner. I’m the mouth on your throat.
I’m the one who says: Bring me the boys —
and they come running.

🩸 — Nova Rue

Bring Me The Boys

🩸 NOVA RUE | ENTRY // Wishes Don’t Come True 🩸

I wrote this one when I realized sometimes wishing feels worse than nothing at all. I used to make deals with the sky — beg for a sign, a promise, a miracle that never showed up. You grow up thinking if you’re sweet enough, quiet enough, maybe your dreams come true. But nobody tells you how heavy it feels when they don’t.

This song is just me sitting with that — the ache you get when you finally admit the fairytale’s been lying. It’s not bitter, though. It’s just honest. A soft confession that I spent too long waiting for stars to keep promises they never made.

I still wish. Maybe I always will. But now I know better than to build my hope on ghosts. Some dreams come true — but not the ones I gave my whole heart to. And maybe that’s not the tragedy I thought it was. Maybe that’s just the truth I needed to sing.

If you’ve ever made a wish that left you empty — this one’s for you.

🩸 — Nova Rue

Wishes Don't Come True  (Remastered)

This song is my little time machine.
I traveled back to that 1950s doo-wop sweetness — when wishes felt simple, when we dreamed big just to stay alive.
But I didn’t want to just wish.
I wanted to remind you: dreams are seeds.
And seeds need sleep, soil, patience, and trust.

⸻

When you hear this —
I hope you feel playful again.
I hope you remember you don’t have to chase every single thing wide awake — sometimes the best magic happens when you’re still enough to let the Sandman visit.
Rest is sacred. Vision is real.
Your dreams are not lost — they’re just waiting to be watered.

⸻

Let this song be your gentle nudge:
✨ Rest is not weakness — it’s your promise to wake up ready.
✨ You’re allowed to plant your wishes deep — and dance while they grow.
✨ And every time you close your eyes and trust your roots — you’re living the vow: I dream, I grow, I rise.

⸻

So, next time this hook hums in your head —
“Mr. Sandman, dream me awake…”
Remember you are worthy of the dream and the harvest.
No hush, no fear — just you, the night sky, and the seeds you’ve yet to bloom. 🌿✨

🌙✨ With roots deep, light wide, and your dreams blooming exactly when they’re meant to —

Keep shining,
Sunni

Mr. Sandman (Dream Me Awake)

Mr. Sandman

“The Interlude” is a stripped-down ballad that moves like a memory — tender, haunting, and quietly defiant. Built on sparse piano, layered vocal textures, and ambient echoes, it captures the emotional weight of transition: the space after betrayal, before becoming.

Lyrically, the song unfolds like a journal left open. It explores fractured friendships, broken trust, and the quiet rebuild that follows a public fall. The hook doesn’t shout — it hums. With falsetto breaks, whispered refrains, and slow-burning verses, the track leans into vulnerability without needing to resolve it.

This isn’t a revenge song — it’s what happens after. “The Interlude” holds space for grief, growth, and the soft power of moving on without needing permission.

The Interlude

“Karma” is a slow-burn R&B reckoning — sharp, hypnotic, and emotionally surgical. Over minimalist production and ambient tension, the song explores betrayal, quiet justice, and spiritual detachment from performative people. With chant-like hooks, stripped-down verses, and spoken word moments that cut deeper than confrontation, Karma doesn’t scream — it watches. This track isn’t about revenge. It’s about clarity. And the satisfaction of knowing the truth always shows.

⸻


Karma

Cleo Antaeus is an independent songwriter, singer, and producer based in Honolulu, Hawaiʻi, whose music drifts between cinematic pop, soulful indie, bossa nova flips, and raw, sync-ready confessions that feel like secrets whispered at 2 a.m.

In just seven months, Cleo has written over 160 original songs, each one shaped by their poetic storytelling and fearless experimentation. Since April alone, their self-released tracks have pulled in 25,000+ organic streams worldwide, with multiple songs crossing 1K–2K+ plays on SoundCloud — proof that Cleo’s garden is alive and echoing.

At the heart of this work are Cleo’s alter artists, Nova Rue and Sunni — soulful, cinematic branches of their voice that bring each story to life in new shades and textures.

Cleo’s songs are 100% original, self-owned, fully cleared, and crafted for TV, film, and brand syncs — perfect for supervisors, artists, and listeners seeking music with real depth and a timeless global soul.

Good songs rise — and so do I.

Genres: Cinematic Pop, Indie Folk, Neo-Soul, R&B, Bossa Nova, Alt-Pop
Based: Honolulu, Hawaiʻi
Sync/Publishing/Collabs: cleonytus@gmail.com

Cleo Antaeus

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