Yes—turnin the blade into a glow-stick and swing it in a mosh pit.
Same truth, louder laugh, way more bounce.
I woke up late inside my own life,
alarm clock screaming “bro you ain’t right,”
mirror said “damn, you look like regret,”
I said “chill, I ain’t even had coffee yet.”
My brain got 99 tabs open,
half say “heal,” half say “hopeless,”
one playing a song from 2009,
one whispering “you still wasting time.”
My past keep texting “u up?”
my future left me on read like “sup?”
I’m stuck in between like a bad Wi-Fi,
trying to load who I am before I die.
HOOK
Spin me out, let the truth go pop,
I’m a hot mess in a thrift-store shop,
trying to find peace in a bargain bin,
but all I keep buying is who I’ve been.
Spin me out, crack the vibe,
I’m too self-aware to enjoy my lies,
so I dance with my demons like “y’all cute,”
but I’m still trying to get out this suit.
I got trauma with a customer service voice,
“Press 1 for pain, 2 for poor life choice,”
“Press 3 if you loved too hard,”
“Press 4 if you built walls from scars.”
I tried meditation, tried running away,
tried pretending everything’s okay,
but my shadow got receipts, my soul got jokes,
and they both call me out when I fake my hope.
I seen love turn weird, seen friends turn cold,
seen my younger self get sold what I’m told,
now I’m paying off debt in emotional cash,
credit score built from the way I crash.
HOOK
Spin me out, let it all go boom,
I’m cleaning out ghosts with a vacuum of tunes,
every beat like “you still here, bro?”
yeah, barely, but I still got flow.
Spin me out, break the frame,
I’m not who I was but I know his name,
and I tip my hat to the mess I made,
then moonwalk out of the shame.
I ain’t holy, I’m just honest on rhythm,
got a cracked-up heart but I still go with ‘em,
every failure taught me a dance I know,
now I two-step past what tried to own my soul.
I don’t need perfect, I need alive,
need a beat that feel like “yeah, I survived,”
so if you see me laughing in a thunderstorm,
that’s just a man learning how to be warm.
OUTRO
This whole tapestry ain’t pretty or neat,
it’s duct tape dreams and busted-up beats,
but it still plays, it still hits,
it still says “damn, you exist.”
And that’s enough to make the universe nod
while you funk-walk forward, bruised but on.
