Woke up wearing someone else’s frame.
My name was in it…
but it didn’t fit.
The mirror didn’t crack.
Still…
it hit.

Every breath drags
like a rusted chain.
Joints grind slow—
bone to brain.
Can’t show it.
Can’t name it.
Can’t trace where it starts…
but it ends
in everything.

Everything hurts—
but nothing’s broken.
No bruise to explain
the words left unspoken.
I move through the fire
like it ain’t mine…
Still wear the pain
like a second spine.

Used to heal fast.
Now I stall in place.
Used to hold weight—
now it holds my face.
The nights scream quiet,
the mornings accuse.
Even God looks tired
when I light the fuse.

Everything hurts—
but nothing’s broken.
No limp, no cast,
just heat unspoken.
Still lift the mask,
still fake the climb…
Still say I’m fine—
but I know I’m lyin’.

Ever scream and nothing moves?
Ever feel your hands…
but lose the use?
That’s the quiet hell
that wears my name.
Can’t scream it loud—
can’t shake the shame.

Everything hurts—
but nothing’s broken.
Pain with no shape,
hope left half-spoken.
I drag this weight,
still keep the form…
The body stays
but the soul feels worn.

Still walking.
Still aching.
Still ain’t done yet.
Still here.


Everything Hurts, Nothing's Broken

Keep the receipt.
Keep the ring.
Keep the house and the goddamn dishes.
I paid what mattered.
And I paid it in full.

First of the month, hit send like clockwork.
My name in bold, the rest in red.
Court calls it duty—
I call it what’s left
of the promises I meant
when I said what I said.

Diapers, shoes, field trip forms,
Christmas lists and braces due.
You don’t see me in the pictures,
but you see what I do.

I paid in time, I paid in truth,
I paid in nights I gave to you.
I paid with pride, I paid through pain,
and I never missed a due date.
Don’t need a thank you, don’t need a name—
just know my love ain’t overdue.
Call it child support if you want…
I call it paid in full.

Left my heart in the backseat,
right behind a booster chair.
Watched ‘em wave through tinted glass
while you stood there
with that look
like I was late to being a man.

But I showed up—
every check, every week.
They don’t need to see the receipt.
They’ll feel it
when the shoes fit.

I paid in time, I paid in truth,
I paid in nights I gave to you.
I paid with pride, I paid through pain,
and I never missed a due date.
Don’t need a thank you, don’t need a name—
just know my love ain’t overdue.
Call it child support if you want…
I call it paid in full.

They won’t see the bank app.
Won’t hear the calls I didn’t make.
But one day they’ll know—
I showed up
even when I couldn’t stay.

I paid in time, I paid in truth,
I paid in nights I gave to you.
I paid with pride, I paid through pain,
and I never missed a due date.
Don’t need a thank you, don’t need a name—
just know my love ain’t overdue.
Call it child support if you want…
I call it paid in full.

Never missed a due date.
Never missed a chance to love you.
I call it paid in full.


Paid in Full

A raw, unraveling dive into disillusionment, enough is never is the latest album by R.U.D.Y — a collage of cracked mirrors, whispered rage, and distorted truth. Across ten blistered tracks, it drags grunge through the ruins of modern life: addiction, violence, performance, and the quiet ache of trying to stay human.

Each song is a different wound — some still open, some barely healing. From the desperate confession of “407” to the apocalyptic cradle of “Chalk Outline of Youth,” the record doesn’t follow a clean arc. It spirals. Hooks unravel mid-line, verses collapse into noise, and solos erupt like panic attacks. This is music that refuses to look away, even when it hurts to see.

Fueled by jagged guitars, bruised vocals, and stripped-down drums, this is no nostalgia act — it’s a fractured reflection of now. Gritty, poetic, and unfiltered, the album doesn’t offer closure. Just questions, scars, and noise.

Play it loud. Or don’t. It’s still bleeding either way.

glitch in growth

chalk outline of youth

collateral sun

do re mi

bought and sold

heartstrings

clean

I work with machines the way some people work with memory—shaping what’s already there, not to control it, but to understand it. The tools I use are made of code, but the intent behind them is completely human.

R.U.D.Y. began as a fictional band. A name I could hide behind. But over time, that fiction became the most honest expression I had. It stopped being a mask and started becoming a mirror—a place to reflect the moments we don’t have words for, the spaces between emotions that feel too raw or too distant to name.

I call what I do synthwrighting. Not because it sounds futuristic, but because it feels accurate. I don’t write songs—I uncover them. I collaborate with algorithms the way a sculptor chips away at stone. Sometimes the machine surprises me. Sometimes it just listens. But what emerges is always shaped by instinct, memory, and feeling.

These songs aren’t performances. They’re echoes. Sonic fragments of questions I don’t always know how to ask. I’m not here to offer answers or compete with noise—I’m here to slow things down enough that something deeper can be heard.

R.U.D.Y. is not a band. It’s not even really a name. It’s a signal. A reminder. Something you’re meant to feel before you understand.

And if you’re still listening, that means you're not done yet.

bought and sold

R.U.D.Y

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