They keep telling you to talk about it.
Write it down.
Take a walk.
Journal.
Breathe.
Forgive.
Let me ask you something.
What if the only reason you’re still breathing is because you screamed when the world tried to make you silent?
Because some of us didn’t survive by healing.
We survived by weaponizing the wound.
I Tried the Healing Thing. It Didn’t Work.
This world rewards obedience. Not honesty.
And definitely not rage.
I’ve been through therapy.
Sat in the room. Said the words.
Talked about childhood. Talked about trauma. Talked about how it felt to always be the freak in the room, the one they whispered about.
And sure—some of it helped.
But here’s what they don’t tell you in that nice quiet room with the tissue box and the soft fucking lighting:
Healing doesn’t work for everyone.
Some of us don’t want to make peace with what was done to us.
Some of us want revenge.
And sometimes?
That’s the only sane response to an insane world.
Music Didn’t Heal Me. It Gave Me a Weapon.
People call metal “angry.”
Like that’s an insult.
Like anger isn’t the most honest fucking emotion left on this planet.
Let me explain what music really is for someone like me.
It’s not therapy.
It’s not entertainment.
It’s not escape.
It’s warfare.
I’m not singing to feel better.
I’m screaming to make the world feel what it did to me.
I’m tearing holes in silence because silence is where abusers hide.
Because if I don’t scream, the pain festers. The betrayal mutates. The injustice eats me alive.
And I’m not fucking dying quietly.
Venomous Sin Was Born from That Fire
Me and Lina didn’t start this band to be famous.
We started it because we were done pretending.
We were done with a world that gaslit us into thinking the pain wasn’t real.
That our rage wasn’t valid.
That being different meant being broken.
Fuck that.
We couldn’t play instruments.
We didn’t have a label.
We didn’t have approval.
So we built a fucking war machine instead.
An AI-powered, genre-destroying, rebellion-forged beast called Venomous Sin.
Because if no one was going to give us a mic, we’d build our own fucking stage.
And burn the old one down.
Lina’s Scream: From Target to Weapon
Lina wasn’t built for this world.
Too sharp. Too beautiful. Too fragile-looking for a society that equates silence with goodness and survival with obedience.
She was the girl they tried to break—bullied, sexualized, gaslit.
The girl who never fit the mold.
They wanted her soft.
They got a fucking storm instead.
You can hear it in every track—her voice isn’t singing, it’s slicing.
It’s years of trauma turned into auditory bloodletting.
She doesn’t ask for sympathy.
She declares war on the entire fucking narrative.
And she does it in stilettos, latex, and glossy black lipstick.
Because looking like a fetish doll while screaming vengeance is the kind of contradiction this world doesn’t know how to survive.
My Story? They Wanted Me Silent. Now I’m Loud Enough to Crack Skulls.
I wasn’t born into safety.
I was the weird kid.
The one who didn’t speak unless it mattered.
The one who made people uncomfortable by just existing.
Bullied? Yeah.
Betrayed? Fuck yes.
Broken? Never.
Because every time they tried to crush me, I evolved.
Harder.
Sharper.
Louder.
This society worships fake smiles and polished resumes.
But real power?
It comes from owning your scars, screaming through them, and making your trauma louder than their denial.
That’s what I do now.
That’s what Venomous Sin is.
It’s the scream that therapy told me to regulate.
It’s the scream that saved my fucking life.
And the Others? We’re a Fucking Army of Broken Gods
Let’s talk about the rest of the band.
Lucien, our bassist, is what happens when trauma gets wrapped in raw power.
He doesn’t play bass—he drags you to hell with it.
No smiles. No small talk. Just weight. Just noise. Just war.
Sheila plays riffs like they’re eulogies for the dead no one cried for.
Her solos are the sound of grief that never got a funeral.
Draven? He’s rage incarnate. The kind of guitarist who didn’t survive by luck—he survived by carving his name into the system that tried to erase him.
Seraphina doesn’t ask to be heard—she ignites the fucking room with chaos.
And if you’re scared of loud women with pink hair and no filter, she’ll gladly make you piss yourself live on stage.
Nyx manipulates sound like a virus. She doesn’t play the keys—she rewrites reality. You don’t hear her music. You hallucinate it.
Thorin is the drummer who doesn’t keep tempo—he leads the charge.
He is the war.
And our dancers?
Zariel, Celeste, Sylvana, Ravena—they don’t “perform.”
They haunt.
They seduce.
They dominate.
They are everything this world tells women not to be.
And they make you beg for more.
Scream With Us or Get the Fuck Out of the Way
Let me make this clear:
We don’t make music for healing.
We make music for revenge.
We don’t play gigs.
We stage assaults.
We don’t want your approval.
We want your silence to burn.
This isn’t art therapy.
This is auditory arson.
This is crucifucked salvation.
This is what happens when you’ve been tindernailed to the algorithm so long, the only logical answer is to scream so fucking loud that the code breaks.
So if you’re hurting?
Good.
Use it.
If you’re angry?
Perfect.
Let it out.
If the world made you feel too much, too weird, too loud—
Scream with us.
Or step aside.
Because Venomous Sin isn’t here to be understood.
We’re here to tear the fucking veil off your fake peace and show you what survival really sounds like.
And it sounds like this:
Sometimes You Need to Scream.
🔥 Join the war machine: venomoussin.com
🎥 Watch us tear the world apart: YouTube
🎧 Feel the scream in your bones: Spotify
