Released exclusively on Scrybe Streaming, Fe’La’s confrontational new record questions Murkemz’s authenticity and turns a growing Arizona rivalry into a public battle for respect.

The questions surrounding Fe’La and Murkemz are officially over.

Whatever tension may have existed between the two Arizona artists is no longer limited to fan speculation, social-media comments or competitive energy from a distance. Fe’La has now addressed Murkemz directly with “Dear Murkemz,” a deeply personal diss record released exclusively on Scrybe Streaming.

The title makes its intended recipient unmistakable, but Fe’La does not structure the song like a traditional barrage of insults. Instead, “Dear Murkemz” plays like an open letter from one artist to another—part confrontation, part lyrical intervention and part public examination of the image Murkemz presents through his music.

“Dear Murkemz, I hope this letter reaches you in time,” Fe’La says as he begins. “I feel like I’m inclined to teach you.”

That opening establishes the perspective Fe’La maintains throughout the record. He is not simply attempting to prove that he can rap better than Murkemz. He assumes the role of a teacher addressing an artist whom he believes possesses genuine talent but has built his music around an identity that does not completely belong to him.

“I feel like rhyming ’bout a life you don’t live is beneath you,” Fe’La tells him. “You gotta tap into your mind, and I’m here to show you how.”

That may be the central argument behind the entire song.

Fe’La is not claiming that Murkemz lacks ability. In fact, he repeatedly acknowledges that Murkemz can rap. His criticism is that the skill is being used to maintain what Fe’La describes as a manufactured street image rather than reveal the person behind it.

“I know you can rap, but maybe in this story you act,” Fe’La says.

It is a calculated angle because it separates Murkemz’s technical talent from his credibility. Fe’La is essentially arguing that knowing how to deliver a story does not necessarily mean the artist lived it. In his telling, Murkemz may be a capable rapper, but the character listeners hear in the music is a performance.

Fe’La makes that accusation explicit when he says Murkemz raps as though he “lived around weapons and sold more drugs than your connections,” before concluding that “the dots ain’t connecting.”

The target of “Dear Murkemz” is therefore not Murkemz’s rhyme scheme, flow or commercial success. It is his character.

“Your character is what we addressing,” Fe’La declares. “All of this to be accepted, I can’t accept it.”

Fe’La then questions several pieces of Murkemz’s public persona, including his voice, background and connection to the lifestyle portrayed in his records. One of the song’s sharpest accusations arrives when Fe’La says, “Your accent ain’t even real, it’s an impression. It’s all deception.”

The criticism goes beyond claiming Murkemz exaggerates his past. Fe’La suggests that Murkemz has constructed an entire presentation designed to appear more dangerous, hardened or culturally connected than he really is.

“You be acting like Brooklyn in the house,” Fe’La says, “but we all know your life in the dust.”

Fe’La follows that line by claiming Murkemz has been in Arizona since childhood and grew up with a comparatively stable suburban upbringing: “You been here since a pup. You grew up in the suburbs, a house and a truck.”

Those statements are Fe’La’s allegations within the diss record—not independently established facts—but they form the foundation of his case. Fe’La believes Murkemz’s real life was already worthy of being expressed and that the decision to replace it with a more marketable street narrative has created the vulnerability he is now attacking.

One of the most interesting parts of the song is that Fe’La does not argue that an artist needs to come from extreme hardship to create meaningful rap music.

“You ain’t gotta have a struggle to rap,” he says before immediately reconsidering the thought. “Matter of fact, I take that back. The hell, we all gotta struggle. I just hate to see you struggle with facts.”

That reversal gives the record more depth than a simple argument over who is “more street.” Fe’La’s point is that struggle is universal, even if it takes different forms. According to him, Murkemz did not need to borrow someone else’s story because his actual experiences could have provided enough substance for honest music.

“I know the hood is appealing,” Fe’La continues. “I know the story sound better when the story is cap.”

Fe’La presents authenticity—not criminal history—as the real measure of credibility. His argument is that an artist does not need guns, drug sales or a traumatic upbringing to earn respect. What matters is whether the artist believes and has experienced the story being delivered.

That distinction also allows Fe’La to contrast Murkemz’s alleged approach with his own writing process.

“I don’t regret none of my life,” he says, “probably why I write everything in pen and not pencil.”

It is one of the record’s cleaner metaphors. Writing in pen represents permanence, accountability and an unwillingness to erase the past. Fe’La portrays himself as someone prepared to stand behind what he writes because it comes from his actual experiences.

He extends that idea with another layered line: “I don’t gotta tell you I got magazines if you want an issue to diss you.”

The bar uses “magazines” and “issue” as a double meaning without relying on a direct claim of violence. Fe’La immediately reinforces that distinction by saying, “The real shit is what I like to stick to.”

As the song progresses, its tone becomes less instructional and more damaging. Fe’La warns Murkemz that an image can only survive for so long if the audience begins questioning its foundation.

“Eventually you gotta switch it up, ’cause the lies getting old,” he raps. “I provide what I know; when I don’t, make it up.”

Fe’La also argues that the alleged persona could eventually limit Murkemz’s career. His line, “They ordering Murkemz and you ain’t even on the menu,” suggests that listeners may be asking for a version of Murkemz that the real person cannot consistently provide.

In other words, Fe’La believes the character is becoming bigger than the artist playing it.

The most aggressive section arrives near the end, when Fe’La strips the imagery down to its central accusation: “No guns, just an image.”

He follows it with one of the song’s most direct sequences:

“You’ll never be the shooter. You will always be the witness. You will always be the [person] that be wishing that he did it.”

By this point, Fe’La is no longer merely encouraging Murkemz to become more honest. He is openly attempting to dismantle the reputation surrounding one of Arizona’s most recognizable rappers.

Still, Fe’La repeatedly insists that the record is intended as something other than a conventional attack.

“Don’t get it wrong, this is not an attack,” he says. “This is more like a lesson, redirection of this perception that you protecting. If I’m wrong, you can offer a correction.”

That final invitation is significant.

Fe’La has made his allegations publicly, but he also leaves Murkemz an opening to dispute them. By saying, “If I’m wrong, you can offer a correction,” Fe’La is effectively challenging Murkemz to answer—whether through another record, a public explanation or evidence that contradicts the picture painted in “Dear Murkemz.”

The question now is whether Murkemz will respond.

Murkemz is frequently described by supporters as the number-one artist in Arizona. Whether every listener agrees with that ranking is almost beside the point. The title carries weight because it has become part of the public conversation surrounding him. By challenging Murkemz directly, Fe’La is not only confronting another rapper; he is confronting the hierarchy that has formed around him.

There are strategic reasons for Murkemz to ignore the song. Artists with established audiences do not always benefit from answering every challenger, especially when a response could introduce that opponent to thousands of new listeners.

But silence carries risks in hip-hop, particularly when the accusation concerns authenticity.

If “Dear Murkemz” continues generating conversation, Murkemz may find himself responding not only to Fe’La but also to listeners who want to know whether the claims have any truth behind them. The more the record spreads, the more difficult it may become to dismiss it as an attempt to gain attention.

Fe’La closes by repeating the demand at the heart of the song: “I just want you to admit it.”

That ending makes “Dear Murkemz” feel less like a random shot and more like a public demand for honesty. Fe’La is not asking Murkemz to stop rapping. He is arguing that Murkemz would become a stronger artist by abandoning the character Fe’La believes he created and telling the truth about the life he actually lived.

Whether listeners accept Fe’La’s argument remains to be seen. Whether Murkemz will allow that argument to stand unanswered may be the more immediate question.

For now, Fe’La has delivered the first official record and placed the entire Arizona hip-hop scene on notice.

“Dear Murkemz” is available exclusively on Scrybe Streaming.

The letter has been delivered.

Now Arizona waits to see whether Murkemz writes back.