most transparent songs I’ve ever written about the queer dating experience. This one didn’t come from a breakup or one specific person—it came from a pattern. A cycle. That feeling of showing up with your whole heart while people show up with half of theirs, or sometimes none at all.

The hook came to me first—soft and breathy like a confession. “Boy, I’m still here.” Those four words say everything: I’m still trying. I’m still believing. I’m still loving, even after being disappointed so many times. It’s not weakness; it’s resilience.

The first verse is me calling myself out a little. I had to admit I’d been letting people in who didn’t deserve the access. Letting the wrong ones stay, letting myself believe connections were deeper than they actually were. And that’s something a lot of gay men understand—sometimes you take what you can get because what you want feels too rare.

But then the verse shifts into something softer, something truer: I love deeply. Slowly. With intention. And that isn’t a flaw. It’s just something that needs the right person to match it.

The pre-chorus is where the exhaustion sets in. I wrote it when I was tired of being everyone’s emotional placeholder. Tired of situationships. Tired of “maybe later,” “play it cool,” “don’t catch feelings.” There’s a whole culture of almost-love in queer dating, and I wanted to put words to that frustration.

The chorus is the heart of the song. “I’m gay and I’m trying to love.” It’s simple but heavy. Loving openly as a queer man is its own journey—beautiful, complicated, sometimes bruising. I wanted to normalize saying it out loud, claiming it without shame or hesitation. I wanted other queer men to hear it and think, “Yeah… me too.”

The second verse dives deeper, into the late-night cravings for connection that aren’t just physical. The desire to be touched with meaning, not convenience. To be seen as a whole person, not a fix for someone’s loneliness or curiosity. It’s sensual but emotionally grounded—because queer intimacy is layered and multidimensional.

The second pre-chorus is my prayer for stability. For a love that stays when things get messy. Someone who understands that softness and struggle can co-exist.

The bridge is the soul of everything I’ve learned. Sometimes love doesn’t show up when you’re ready for it—it shows up after heartbreak has shaped you. And even though I’ve been hurt, I’m still open. Still hopeful. Still leaving a space in my life for the right man.

And the final hook? That’s me reclaiming my strength. Saying, “I’m still here,” but no longer in desperation—more like an invitation to someone who deserves it.

“Boy, I’m Still Here” is for gay men who feel like they’re always loving more than they’re loved. It’s for anyone who’s tired of ghosting, tired of pretending, tired of being almost-chosen. It’s a reminder that being still here—still open, still hopeful—isn’t a flaw.

It’s courage.

Boy I’m Still Here

“He Was My Home” is one of the most personal songs I’ve ever written. It came from a point in my life where I truly believed I’d found someone who saw me—really saw me. The kind of man who walks into your world soft and calm, and suddenly every guarded part of you wants to come out of hiding. The first verse is exactly that moment: the quiet hope, the fear, the relief of letting someone in after a long time of protecting yourself.

There’s a line—“He held my hands like they’d never break.” That one still gets me. It captures what it feels like when someone makes you feel safe for the first time in a long time. And when you feel safe, you start giving pieces of yourself you don’t offer to just anyone. The pre-chorus is about those pieces—the fragile ones, the bleeding ones. The parts you think someone will finally cradle gently… until they don’t.

The chorus is really the emotional core. “He was my home.” That’s something not everyone understands, especially when you’re talking about queer love. Sometimes we find “home” in a person long before we ever find it in a place. And losing that—losing a home you built in someone else—hurts in a way that’s almost physical. I wanted listeners to feel that cold shock when warmth suddenly disappears, when someone you loved with your whole self turns around and walks away like it was nothing.

The second verse dives into the small, everyday promises—Tuesday nights, whispered forevers, names spoken like they meant the world. That’s what makes heartbreak after deep intimacy so devastating. You’re not just losing a person; you’re losing the life you quietly built around them. When I wrote the line “One morning he stopped reaching back,” I knew it was the turning point. Sometimes relationships don’t end with a bang; they end with silence.

The bridge is the part I struggled with the most emotionally. It’s about the echoes that stay—the empty bed, the heartbeat trying to remember how to feel whole without him. It’s the slow process of unloving someone who once felt like the safest place you knew. But it’s also where I remind myself, and anyone listening, that resilience is real. Even broken hearts keep beating.

The final chorus is where I take the power back. I realized that a home that leaves you isn’t a home you can stay in. Loving him didn’t make me weak—it made me honest. But learning to let him go? That made me stronger. By the end, the song turns from mourning into reclamation: “But now I’m my own.” That line is the healing. It’s the moment where loss turns into self-return.

“He Was My Home” is for anyone who gave their heart to someone who wasn’t ready to hold it. It’s for anyone who had to rebuild themselves after loving deeply and losing deeply. It’s for queer love, for soft love, for brave love. And it’s a reminder that even when someone walks away, you can still come back to yourself.

He Was My Home

“Learning How to Love Again” came from a place of rebuilding after giving my heart to someone who didn’t know how to keep it. The song is about being broken open by love, but choosing—slowly and painfully—to believe in it again.

The verses reflect that raw honesty: admitting I gave everything, admitting how alone healing can feel, and admitting that strength doesn’t always feel like strength. It’s about trying to let go of someone who left, while still holding onto who I’m becoming.

The chorus is the core of the song: I’m scared, I’m healing, but I’m trying. Trying to trust again, trying to open my heart again, trying to believe that there’s a man out there who’ll stay. It’s not a victory cry—it’s a hopeful one.

The second half of the song leans into vulnerability. I talk about embracing the soft parts of me I used to hide, and wanting a love that sees all of me, flaws included. The bridge is the turning point—a moment of hope, imagining love returning gently, and giving myself permission to let someone in again.

In the end, the song isn’t about the heartbreak—it’s about the courage to keep going. “Learning How to Love Again” is for anyone who’s been hurt but still believes love will find them when they’re ready. It’s the sound of healing in real time.

Still Learning How to Love Again

“Paper Hearts & Firelight” is one of those songs I didn’t just write—I lived it. It came from a place where love felt brand new, overwhelming, and a little reckless in the best way. When I started writing it, I kept going back to this night under neon lights where everything shifted. You know that moment when someone smiles at you like they already understand you? That’s what this song grew out of.

The verses are really personal. They capture the softness of falling for someone when you don’t even realize it’s happening. Two boys just… letting themselves be seen for a moment. That kind of queer love—quiet, brave, and vulnerable—doesn’t always get the spotlight it deserves, so I wanted to make space for it here. I wanted listeners to feel the tremble in the air, the breath between two hands almost touching, the possibility of a whole world opening up.

But love that burns bright also burns fast. The pre-choruses are where the tension creeps in—the fear, the fragility, the way dreams can pull two people together and tear them apart. And the chorus… that’s where the whole emotional weight crashes in. “Paper hearts” became this symbol of giving someone your tenderness before you know how to protect it. “Firelight” is the warmth you keep chasing even after the person is gone.

The second verse is the hardest for me. It talks about the scent of someone lingering long after they leave. How memories can feel louder than reality. It’s one thing to lose a person; it’s another to lose the version of yourself you were when they loved you.

The bridge is where I let myself breathe again. I didn’t want the song to end in bitterness—because it wasn’t that kind of love. It hurt, yeah, but it also meant something. Sometimes you look back and realize the heartbreak shaped you in a way you needed.

By the final chorus, I’m not singing from a place of loss anymore. I’m singing from a place of gratitude—for the softness, for the spark, for the lesson that even fragile hearts have value. The song ends on hope: the belief that one day love will feel light again.

“Paper Hearts & Firelight” is me honoring a love that didn’t last but still mattered. It’s my goodbye, my thank-you, and my promise to myself that the next time love arrives… I’ll be ready in a different way.

Paper Hearts & Firelight

“Cool on You” is my breakup empowerment anthem — the moment when heartbreak transforms into clarity, strength, and a little bit of sass. I wrote this song from the perspective of someone who gave everything emotionally, only to realize the love was never being reciprocated. The first verse sets that raw vulnerability: loving deeply, losing yourself, and finally seeing the truth of someone who couldn’t meet you where you were.

The pre-chorus is that rise — stepping back into self-worth, reclaiming your life after someone tried to dim your light. The chorus is the emotional release: letting go of the pain, realizing it made you stronger, and stating proudly, “I’m cool on you.” It’s not bitterness — it’s liberation.

The Kick Rocks Breakdown is where the attitude comes in. It’s the closure moment — shutting the door, setting boundaries, and refusing to let someone rewrite history. It’s playful but firm, the part you shout with your friends in the car.

Verse two shifts into self-recognition: seeing the person you’re becoming, acknowledging how much you outgrew the relationship, and finally closing that chapter. The bridge opens the door to hope — realizing someone better, braver, and more honest is out there.

By the final chorus, the song becomes a victory lap. You’ve reclaimed your shine, your voice, your freedom.
“Cool on You” is heartbreak alchemized into empowerment — a celebration of finally choosing yourself.

Cool on You (Kick Rocks)

Causin’ a Commotion (Boy Meets Boy)-Extended Club Mix

“Dream of My Forever” is a song about holding onto hope even when love has felt distant. The verses capture that quiet, nighttime vulnerability — the moments where you’re walking through your own darkness but still searching for a spark. I wanted to show how hard it can be to carry loneliness, yet still believe that someone meant for you is out there.

The song grows more confident as it moves. In the second verse, I reclaim pieces of myself I once hid, reminding myself — and anyone listening — that we deserve a love that celebrates our truth, not dims it. The chorus is the emotional core: the dream of a man who brings warmth, consistency, and a sense of being cherished.

The bridge is where the hope blooms. It imagines the moment love finally arrives, when all the years of hurt start to fade and the heart gets its redemption. It’s tender but powerful — a release, a promise.

In the end, “Dream of My Forever” is a love letter to the future — to the belief that even after heartbreak, someone real, steady, and soft is on their way. It’s a reminder that hope is its own kind of healing.

Dream of My Forever

Causin’ a Commotion

Causin’ a Commotion (Boy Meets Boy) - 80s Flavor Dance Remix

Causin’ a Commotion -(Boy Meets Boy) House Mix

This song is about surviving the kind of heartbreak that strips you bare and still choosing to rise. I wrote it from a place where I had given more love than I ever gave myself, only to be left in silence. The verses reflect that deep vulnerability—the realization that loving someone with rare tenderness shouldn’t require losing your own voice.

The pre-chorus and chorus mark the turning point: finding strength in the wreckage, holding onto even the smallest ember of hope, and rebuilding myself into a stronger, wiser man. The Mariah-inspired ad-libs are intentional—they’re the emotional release, the sound of reclaiming worth.

By the second verse, the song shifts from pain to empowerment. The scars become lessons, not losses. The bridge is the spiritual moment where heartbreak transforms into something beautiful—a symphony instead of a silence.

In the end, it’s a song about healing, queerness, and self-rediscovery. It’s about believing that a love worthy of me still exists—and knowing I’m finally ready for it.

To Rise in Love Again

“Surrender (Club Mix)” is my sensual, dance-floor escape fantasy. I wanted to capture that charged moment between two men when the music, the lights, and the chemistry all hit at once. It’s intimate without being explicit, centering the bottom’s perspective in a way that feels confident, sexy, and emotionally open.

Vocally, I leaned into my Mariah-inspired side—breathy textures, lush runs, and soaring whistle moments that mirror the track’s rising heat. The production builds like a slow burn into a full club release, letting the sensuality grow with every drop.

At its heart, the song is about letting go—surrendering to desire, connection, and the freedom of being fully yourself on the dance floor.

Surrender (Sexy Gay Club Mix)

Surrender (Dance Club Mix)

‘Into the Grove’ is all about daring someone to show their love, to step beyond words and prove their passion. Verse 1 sets the scene—intimate, electric, and charged with curiosity. The pre-chorus ramps up the tension, demanding action over empty promises. The chorus is the anthem, the dancefloor call for authenticity and boldness, while the bridge slows things down with a seductive, playful edge, letting the emotions breathe. Every lyric is about desire, courage, and owning your truth, wrapped in a club-ready, Madonna-inspired groove that celebrates gay love, freedom, and fearless connection.

Into The Groove

This song is pure celebration—a high-energy, unapologetic anthem for everyone who’s ready to own the night. From the sassy verses to the floor-filling chorus, it’s about confidence, pride, and letting go of fear while commanding attention. Every lyric and DJ call is designed to hype the crowd, push boundaries, and turn the dancefloor into a playground of self-expression and joy. It’s gay, it’s raunchy, it’s fun—and it’s made to make everyone feel like the star they are

Push It

Should’ve Seen Me” began with the emotional concept of unrequited love for a best friend, capturing longing, vulnerability, and heartbreak. The verses are intimate and confessional, the pre-chorus builds tension, and the chorus delivers emotional release with Mariah-inspired runs and whistle notes. The club mix adds pulsing synths, risers, and beats to translate the emotional story into a dancefloor experience, balancing heartfelt storytelling with energetic, cathartic moveme

Should’ve Seen Me (Club Mix)

This song comes from a place I carried quietly for a long time. I was sixteen when my sense of safety was taken, and for years I thought that experience defined me. Growing up gay in the late ’90s, I didn’t have the language—or the space—to talk about trauma, so music became the place where I learned how to breathe again.

“Still I Rise” is about reclaiming my body, my voice, and my joy. It honors the scared teenager I was, while celebrating the man I became—someone who survived, broke through shame, and learned that healing can coexist with pride, pleasure, and power. Turning this story into a club record was intentional: I wanted the dance floor to be a place of release, affirmation, and freedom.

This song isn’t about what was done to me.
It’s about what didn’t break me—and everything I rose into because of it.

Still I Rise (1999)-Pride MEGAMIX

This song captures the moment I stopped seeing my past as a sentence and started seeing it as a chapter. Writing “Still I Rise” was about honoring my sixteen-year-old self—the fear, the silence, the confusion—while giving him the reassurance I didn’t have then. Growing up gay in the late ’90s, I learned early how to hide, but I also learned how to survive.

The pop treatment is intentional. I wanted the pain to live inside something melodic, hopeful, and expansive—because healing didn’t come quietly for me, it came through strength, honesty, and self-love. This song is about reclaiming identity, shedding shame, and realizing that what was taken never defined my heart or my future.

“Still I Rise” is my proof that survival can become joy—and that thriving is the loudest response of all.

Still I Rise

This song came from that quiet moment during the holidays when everything looks beautiful on the outside, but your heart is still asking for something deeper. Christmas music is usually full of sparkle and perfection, but I wanted to tell the truth about what this season feels like for a lot of us—especially queer people who are still learning where we fully belong.

At its core, this isn’t a song about wanting more—it’s about wanting room.

All I Want For Christmas is You (Understanding)

42 year old gay man who just living life one day at a time

Justin

Popular tracks