Kiyah Reigns Perspective on Thanks for The Gifts

When I get stuck, I listen to my own music for inspiration or a clue as to what is missing or being held back. Sometimes the answer is in what I've already said - a thread I didn't follow through, an emotion I touched but didn't explore. My catalog is a map of where I've been and where I still need to go.

I do not have any personal superstitions. Writing is breathing for me - it doesn't require ritual, just honesty.

Usually lyrics come first, but often lyrics arrive with a melody. I tend to write based on my inner world. My breath, my pulse, my body gives me the groundwork before it is ever produced. The rhythm is already there - in how I'm feeling, how my heart is beating, how the words need to move. Production comes later to match what's already living inside me. The song exists before it's ever recorded.

I believe my music is an accurate reflection of who I am. Once the curtain is pulled back, you would see how painstakingly real it is - from my fears to how I live my life, the company I keep, those that are obviously missing from my life. Anonymity allows me to be so real with you about everything: my flaws, my heartbreaks, my growth, and my downfalls. I can give you all of me without reservation or hesitation. The mask actually allows for more truth, not less.

"Miss You Grandma" was true to life, and I had a polished version - but I chose to give listeners the song in its infancy, in its ache. I was literally in that closet, holding her Bible, taking in her scent. I could have given them the refined version, but I gave them me at one of my most vulnerable times - no shield, just a girl in pain. That raw version is the rawest moment I could offer. That's the power of choosing vulnerability over perfection.

The goal I was trying to achieve was to gift the world with the woman that was born of difficulty. Taking those lessons and allowing them to be gifts instead of haunting traumatic experiences. I wanted to create an anthem for anyone who's had to become their own hero - a reminder that everything you survived made you stronger. This song is proof that you can take the worst things and transform them into your greatest power.

Letting go of old ghosts. Reclaiming trauma as a gift - lessons learned, resilience taught, power bought. I needed to transform how I saw everything that tried to break me. Instead of being haunted by traumatic experiences, I chose to see them as the teachers they were. This song is that shift - from victim to victor, from wounded to warrior.

I write because I have no choice. That's like asking why someone breathes. The only say I have is whether to share. Writing isn't a hobby or a passion project - it's survival. It's how I process, how I exist, how I make sense of being alive. Stopping isn't an option. The only decision is whether the world gets to see it.

My favorite instrument to work with is the piano. There is something so personal and gravitating about it. It can break your heart or uplift your spirit. The piano holds space for whatever emotion you're carrying - it doesn't judge, it just responds. Whether it's a single note or a full chord progression, the piano has this way of making everything feel more intimate, more honest. It's the heartbeat of so many tracks.

Toven from Interstellarr Muzik. He has a unique sound that leans forward while also embracing staying grounded in the present. Amazing producer. Check out songs like "Yee Haw" by VJ Keys and "Leg Work" by Nje Banda - his production is next level. He understands how to create something that feels futuristic and timeless at once. That's the kind of production I want paired with my words.

The best advice I received is that sometimes simple is best. I used to think more layers, more complexity meant better quality. But I've learned that stripping things back, letting the words breathe, and not overproducing can be more powerful. The emotion doesn't need to compete with excessive production. Sometimes the simplest arrangement hits the hardest.

Writing has my heart. I get lost in it. If I could simply write and pass it on to the next phase with guidelines, I would. The words, the rhythm, the truth of it - that's where I live. Production is necessary, and I've learned to navigate it, but writing is where the magic happens for me. Everything else is just bringing the words to life.

I don't have methods that help flush out my creativity - it's who I am, I am always creating. But if I'm trying to write from a particular place, I isolate myself. I don't listen to other artists, I keep communication with the outside world to a minimum. I need that space to fully inhabit whatever emotion or truth I'm processing. External noise interferes with internal clarity. So isolation isn't a method as much as it is protection for the creative process.

I haven't had the opportunity to collaborate with another writer - anonymity makes that a bit difficult. Right now, my sound is entirely my own, which means it's unfiltered and deeply personal. But I would love and welcome the exchange. A collaboration would definitely add a new infusion of life and a new heartbeat to my music. That's transformation, and I welcome it. Working alone gives me complete creative control and authenticity, but I'm not opposed to letting someone else into the process if it's the right fit.

"Thanks for The Gifts" started as the Raw version. It was therapy - somewhere to put energy I could no longer hold. Pure catharsis. But I didn't want to leave my listeners with that ache, so I wanted to give them the same honesty without the detail and an infectious hook that spoke power and resilience over them. The Raw version is what I needed to release for myself. The main version is what I wanted to give back - the transformation, the triumph, the reminder that we're unbreakable. Same truth, different delivery.

Most of my music starts as poetry. I write to process, to survive, to make sense of things. But sometimes my internal rhythm whispers that it needs to be backed by a track. That's when words become songs. I don't force it - I listen to what the piece needs. Some stay on the page. Some demand to be heard differently. The music finds me; I just follow where it leads.

I cannot think of anyone I would want to be compared to. Each artist has their own DNA - visually, sonically, spiritually. It's not plug and play. I am in awe of so many artists, and I would be humbled to be mentioned in the same breath as most of them. But I'm not trying to be the next anyone. I'm trying to be the first me. Comparisons are inevitable, but they're not the goal. Creating something authentic is.

"Lift Every Voice and Sing." I always return to it. In times of struggle and times of strength, I lean on that song. It carries history, resilience, pain, triumph - everything our people have survived and continue to rise above. Success isn't just about making it; it's about remembering where you come from and carrying that legacy forward. That song embodies that. It's a reminder that we're still here, still singing, still lifting our voices despite everything that tried to silence us.

When you ask what my favorite work of art is, all that comes to mind is the book "Black Like Me." It's raw, uncomfortable, and necessary - a white journalist who darkened his skin to experience what Black people faced in the segregated South. It's not perfect, but it's honest about what it cost him to see truth. That book represents what art should do: make you confront reality, challenge your perspective, and refuse to let you look away. Art that's comfortable isn't doing its job.

My graphic design background is fundamental - I build complete aesthetic systems for every project. Color palettes, typography, visual DNA. When AI tools don't give me what I need, I can adjust and refine using design principles. Writing taught me structure and storytelling. DJing taught me about energy, transitions, and how songs speak to each other. Working at a daycare taught me resilience and how to find calm in chaos. Autobody work taught me precision, problem-solving, and that sometimes you have to rebuild something completely to make it whole again - which is a perfect metaphor for healing. All of it shapes how I approach creation - intentional, resourceful, and always thinking about the full experience.

I have a background in graphic design, which is essential to everything I create visually. I've worked as a writer - not music, but gaming and technology content. As a teen, I worked at a daycare, which taught me patience and how to manage chaos. I've also worked as a DJ, which gave me a deep understanding of rhythm, flow, and how to read energy. And you would never guess - I worked as an autobody technician. All of these experiences feed into my music in different ways.

Transparency. The industry has so many middle men that the artists and producers themselves don't know the intricacies of their own deals. It's designed to keep creators in the dark about where their money goes and who's profiting from their work. Also, how artists are paid needs to shift - especially small independent artists. Streaming payouts are laughable, distribution costs add up, and the system favors those who already have resources. Artists shouldn't have to choose between eating and creating.

I cannot speak to the artist role in society - every artist has their own set of rules and values. I can only speak to mine. I owe my listeners authenticity, honesty, uncomfortable truths, and I have a civic responsibility that will make me an unpopular artist: to speak even when it will cost me. Not every artist needs to carry that weight, but for me, silence when truth is needed isn't an option.

My most embarrassing moment was NOT knowing how to respond to a fan DM. It was my first one ever and it was mind-blowing. I just froze. Here was someone reaching out to tell me my music meant something to them, and I had no idea what to say. I wasn't prepared for that kind of connection. Eventually I figured it out, but in that moment I realized - oh, this is real. People are actually listening.

 My scariest experience in music has been exposing myself to my family. Showing them Kiyah. Not knowing how they would react or if they would accept this honest, vulnerable, and open version of myself. Music became where I told truths I couldn't speak otherwise, and letting the people closest to me hear that - knowing they'd understand exactly what I was saying - that was terrifying. But it was also necessary.

I don't plan on being a game changer in MY genre because I don't claim a genre. I go wherever the music takes me. I'm not trying to fit into boxes or revolutionize categories - I'm just creating what needs to exist in the moment it needs to exist. If that changes something, it changes something. But limitation isn't the goal. Freedom is.

Being an artist has not made my life any lonelier. I am selective with my energy and the people I have around me. I have learned hard lessons that taught me to keep my circle small but real. Plus recording as an anonymous artist helps - there's freedom in creating without the pressure of public persona or performance. The loneliness that exists isn't from the art; it's from life itself. The art actually helps with that.

I have learned that once I release pieces of me into the world, like a painting, it's up for interpretation. People don't always receive the message or the spirit it was created in, but that is okay. I had to learn to be at peace with that. The art does what it needs to do for whoever encounters it, and that's beyond my control. All I can do is create from truth and let it go.

There doesn't have to be a goal post I am reaching for. The goal post is simply my next breath. I create because it's how I process being alive, how I move through the world. If the music reaches someone who needs it, that's everything. But the act of creation itself is the goal - it's survival, it's breathing, it's being.

I write, I draw, I paint, I build, I sing, I rap, I make music because that is who I am. Even when I choose not to share, I am still in motion because I am who I am. There doesn't have to be a driving reason beyond existence itself. I create to survive. I wouldn't be here if I didn't.

Life is art and vice versa in my lenses. They cannot be separated. Every experience, every emotion, every interaction is material - not in an exploitative way, but in a way that finds meaning and beauty in the full spectrum of being human. An artistic outlook means seeing the world as both raw material and finished masterpiece simultaneously. It means finding poetry in pain, rhythm in chaos, and color in darkness. It's a way of moving through the world that's always paying attention, always feeling, always transforming.

Writing first and always - it's how I process everything. Music became the natural extension of that, giving the words rhythm and life. Sound itself can be healing. Certain notes and chords can activate healing and emotion. Visual design is how I complete the world around the music - creating the aesthetic systems that make each project feel cohesive. These three work together: words to express truth, music to give it emotion, visuals to create the atmosphere.

Success isn't about fame or recognition for me - it's about reach and resonance. When someone halfway across the world discovers my music and connects with it, when the streaming numbers show that people are actually listening and finding what they need in the songs - that's success. It's measured in moments of connection, not metrics. If my music helps one person feel less alone or recognize their own strength, I've succeeded.

My favorite shifts depending on where I am in my journey. Right now, from my available catalog, "Skin to Skin" resonates differently. But "Thanks for The Gifts," especially the Raw version because it was a cathartic release, holds a special place because it represents a turning point - me finally claiming the power that came from my hardest lessons. Writing it felt like both closure and beginning. It's proof that you can transform pain into something unbreakable.

Streaming platforms and social media. I love that music can reach someone halfway across the world who needs to hear it right in that moment. I've been amazed watching "Thanks for The Gifts" connect with people in different countries - people I'll never meet but who understand exactly what I'm saying. That's the power of honest storytelling. The music finds who it's meant for.

Seeing "Thanks for The Gifts" resonate with international listeners - people in countries I've never been to, connecting with the message. Watching the streaming numbers grow and knowing each play is someone who needed to hear they're strong enough, they're not alone, they can make it through. That's everything. Numbers are great, but knowing the music is actually reaching people who need it? That's what makes it all worth it.

My practice is my processing. Writing is how I make sense of life, and music is how I give it form. Early on, it was pure catharsis - just getting the pain out. Now it's more intentional. I think about how the words will land, how the message serves both me and whoever needs to hear it. But it's still rooted in truth. I don't create on a schedule - I create when I have something that needs to be said.

Authentic. Resilient. Real.

Seen. Understood. Empowered. I want them to recognize their own strength reflected back at them. I want people who've been through hard things to feel less alone, to realize that survival is something to be proud of. I want them to feel permission to claim their power, choose themselves, and know they're unbreakable. If my music makes one person stand a little taller, I've done what I set out to do.

I'm not performing right now - my focus is on the music reaching people who need it. But if I imagine it: intimate, stripped down, honest. Not a spectacle, but a shared moment of truth. Dim lighting, simple staging, just the music and the message. A space where people can feel seen, understood, and reminded of their own strength. Connection over performance.

Jessie Murph. Our approaches to music align - we both use it to process real pain and turn it into something powerful. A collaboration would be authentic, emotional, and uncompromising. Two voices telling hard truths over a beat that hits. That's the conversation I want to be part of.

Songs come to me during the most mundane moments - in the middle of doing dishes, driving, or lying awake at 3am. The strangest might be in a closet, actually. I was sitting on the floor processing something heavy, and suddenly the words just started flowing. That's how "Grew Into Me" was born - in a quiet, hidden space where I finally gave myself permission to feel everything.

This is impossible, but: Whitney Houston for that unmatched vocal power and timeless emotion, Jessie Murph for the raw, unfiltered honesty that keeps me grounded, and Beyoncé for the range - she can do everything and reminds you to claim your power. These three cover the full spectrum of what I need music to do: inspire, heal, and empower.

Whitney Houston, hands down. That voice was unmatched - pure power, technical perfection, and soul all in one. Watching her perform was witnessing someone fully command their gift. The emotion, the control, the presence - she was in a league of her own. That's the standard.

My music is raw testimony set to rhythm. It's pop-rap with soul - anthems for anyone who's had to save themselves. Think powerful verses about real experiences, hooks that affirm your strength, and production that makes you feel unstoppable. It's honest, it's declarative, and it's for people who've survived and are ready to thrive. If you've ever had to become your own hero, my music is for you.

Jessie Murph's music is unfiltered truth. It's emotionally devastating in the best way - the kind of songs that make you feel seen in your darkest moments. She's not trying to make it pretty; she's just telling it like it is. Raw vocals, real pain, real power. It's for people who need music that matches the weight of what they're carrying.

Right now, touring isn't part of my journey - I'm focused on creating and connecting through the music itself. But if I could share a stage with anyone, it would be artists who've mastered vulnerability as strength, who make space for real emotion and healing in their work. Artists who understand that transformation is a process worth documenting.

 Transformation and personal power. Self-love and independence. Breaking generational cycles. Recognizing your own strength. Choosing yourself first. The journey from surviving to thriving. Authentic living and real connections. Legacy and becoming who you're meant to be. My music is about rising above, claiming your space, and living freely on your own terms.

I've grown from processing pain to claiming power. My early work was about survival - now it's about thriving. I've learned to create anthems that celebrate strength, independence, and authentic living. The production is sharper, my delivery is more confident, and the messages are clear: I'm unbreakable, and so are you. "Thanks for The Gifts" represents that evolution - from wounded to warrior.

 "Thanks for The Gifts" is pop-rap with hip-hop energy and empowerment anthem vibes. It's got powerful verses, an infectious hook, and production that hits hard. Think confident, declarative rap with melodic elements - the kind of track that makes you feel unstoppable. It's designed for anyone who needs a reminder of their own power.

I didn't decide to become an artist - I was simply a hurt granddaughter finally allowed to process her loss. My grandmother passed years ago, but I wasn't allowed to grieve until recently. When I finally had the space to feel everything I'd been holding, I had to find a way to survive it. I've always been a writer, so the words came first. Then the music followed. I don't know if I'd call myself a performer yet. Right now, I'm just sharing my truth and hoping someone out there is going through the same thing - someone who needs that same support and acknowledgement. If my process of healing helps even one person feel less alone in theirs, that's enough.

Watching musicals with my grandmother and mother. We'd sit together and get lost in these stories told through song - the drama, the emotion, the way music could carry an entire narrative. Those moments taught me that music isn't just sound, it's storytelling. It's how you express what words alone can't hold. That foundation - music as narrative, as connection, as shared experience - is at the heart of everything I create now.

"Thanks for The Gifts" comes from real experience. I had to learn independence early, figure out who I could trust, and become my own protector. Every hard lesson taught me something essential about my own strength. This song is my testimony - genuine gratitude for the resilience I gained, the clarity I found, and the person I became through it all. It's not sarcasm, it's truth: those difficult experiences shaped me into someone unbreakable.

I'm Kiyah Reigns - a pop-rap artist who turns life into art. I make music about everything: the hilarious contradictions of being human, the journey of becoming yourself, love, loss, celebration, and those random 3am thoughts that hit different. My sound lives between vulnerability and power, where humor is medicine and every experience - good, bad, or absurd - becomes a story worth telling. I create because it's how I process life, how I connect, how I make sense of it all.