“Name This Hunger” is a quiet, human anthem about learning meaning through kindness. A warm baritone tells the story with fingerpicked acoustic guitar, pump-organ undertones, brushed snare, and bowed metal swells. The imagery is tactile—bowl, spoon, bridge, river—grounding a chorus built to be sung together. For night drives, small rooms, and anyone who needs a gentle word that still carries weight.

Name This Hunger

A haunting country-folk confession sung from the point of view of a man who feels more like a scarecrow than a person—stitched up, tied down, built to warn but not to live. “Scarecrow” is all wheat fields, storm clouds, splinters, and silence as someone he loves drives away. Intimate verses, a devastating chorus, and a slow-burn bridge that feels like a match that never quite gets struck.

Scarecrow

A soul-drenched country ballad about the way thin little pages can decide everything—divorce papers, bank letters, wills, contracts, even the song itself. “Just Paper” lives where money, memory, faith, and heartbreak all meet in black ink on white. Slow-burning verses, a huge, roaring chorus, and a gritty, human vocal that lets every crack show.

Just Paper

A holy courtroom drama set to pounding drums, whispered tension, and a wall of sound.
“Case Dismissed” is a cinematic gospel-rock epic about guilt, mercy, verdicts, and the shocking moment the Judge steps down, rolls up His sleeves, and pays the price Himself. It’s dark, thunderous, intimate — a collision of courtroom imagery and crucifixion truth. For anyone who’s ever felt condemned and couldn’t believe they walked out free.

The Gavel

A cinematic power ballad about the collision that changes everything. It’s not a drift; it’s a head-on crash of lives. This song is for anyone who walked away from the fire shaken and new.

Impact

A high-octane love song for the adrenaline junkies. Driving guitars and a chorus big enough to tear the roof off. Play this one loud with the windows down.

Category Five

“Exit 17” is a late-night emo-trap confession for anyone who keeps healing in motion but can’t quite let go. Moody guitars, airy pads, and deep 808s soundtrack a sleepless highway loop—hoodie in the passenger seat, bracelet on the shifter, and a mind stuck on the exit you never take. Half-rapped, half-sung vocals drift like thoughts in a car at 3am: talking to a ghost, stacking miles that don’t change how it feels. It’s the sound of trying to move on with the same roads, the same songs, and the same ache riding shotgun.

Exit 17

“We Both Up” is a trap-soul love letter to the day one who was there when the closet was the bedroom and the air mattress was the bed. Over deep 808s, crisp hats, and warm guitar and pad textures, a smooth, half-rapped, half-sung vocal remembers dollar-menu dinners, stolen Wi-Fi, and résumés edited on the couch—then fast-forwards to flights, penthouse views, and wedding plans. Through it all, the hook stays the same: “I don’t wanna shine if we don’t both shine too.” It’s romantic, grateful, and stadium-big while still feeling like it’s sung to one person in a quiet room.

We Both Up

“The Real Thing” is an upbeat nu-disco / electropop anthem for the moment a summer crush turns into something undeniable. Four-on-the-floor kicks, a deep, groovy bassline, funk guitars, and shimmering analog synths drive a rooftop-ready groove while a confident vocal flips from breathy verses to explosive, hands-in-the-air choruses. Cherry soda spills, city lights freeze, and a stadium-sized hook declares, “It’s the real thing, lock it in.” Built for sunset parties, late-night drives, and every time you just know it’s more than a fling.

The Real Thing

“The High Water Mark” is a cinematic heartland rock anthem for a working shore getting sold off piece by piece. Driven by relentless acoustic strums, echoing electric guitars, and a pounding drum groove, a ragged storyteller watches the Blue Crab bar, the boardwalk, and the town’s history get whitewashed into luxury condos and chalkboard espresso. As Hammond organ swells and a searing guitar solo rise, he leaves a scratched date in the beams like a curse—proof that the people who built this coast were here first. Nostalgic, bitter, and defiant, it’s a sunset soundtrack for anyone watching their hometown get priced out from under them.

The High Water Mark

“Little by Little” is a soft-rock slow burn about how love doesn’t always break—it just erodes. Clean guitars, warm Rhodes keys, and brushed drums frame a storyteller vocal as two people drift apart in tiny domestic details: peeling porch paint, old movie tickets, jokes that don’t quite land anymore. Tight three-part harmonies echo the title line, turning “little by little” into both a warning and a quiet promise. In the final chorus, the song leans toward hope: if love can fade by inches, maybe it can be rebuilt the same way.

Little By Little

CYBER CHORD writes songs the way a porch light holds a night: small, steady, and impossible to ignore. I work with AI as a true co-writer, then carve the lyric by hand and shape the track in Suno. The sound leans bare and human—country roots in the soil, a little rock grain in the teeth, and a faith-lit lift that chooses hope without preaching.

These are ordinary-room hymns: rings hidden in cotton, receipt-tape strings, a dress behind rain glass, a sink that cools while you find the words. Silence is an instrument here; sometimes there’s a full bar where the house gets to breathe. If a line can’t survive a campfire and a cracked mug, it doesn’t make the song.

If you’re new, start with the heartbreakers. They don’t shout. They stay. I believe in the holiness of the everyday, and in the quiet bravery of saying the thing before “later” takes it away.

No paid promo, no playlist buys, no cover-art pitches, no dance offers, no cold DMs. If it’s a pitch, the porch light’s off. If you’re a real listener, come in soft: pick one song, leave a genuine note (lyric or timestamp welcome), and hand it to one friend. That’s how this fire stays lit.

May your road stay open, your coffee stay warm, and your day be peaceful.

Exit 17

Cyber Chord

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