Ghost in the booth

(whispers, eerie echo)

Yeah…

Lights off, mic on…

I can feel ‘em… still here with me…

I hear footsteps in the static, every bar’s a resurrection,

Past me in the mirror, spittin’ rhymes like a confession.

Pages bleedin’ ink, it’s a séance in this session,

Every line a scar, every beat another lesson.

My shadow got a voice, and it raps in my tone,

Every verse I record feels like I’m not alone.

Haunted by ambition, and the sins that I own,

Chasin’ crowns made of smoke, in a kingdom of bones.

There’s a ghost in the booth when I spit these lines,

Past me won’t sleep, keeps stealin’ my shine.

Echoes in the mic, like he’s still alive,

Tryna bury him deep but he just survives.

(Yeah, ghost in the booth…)

I left parts of me in every midnight track,

But they crawl out the speakers just to drag me back.

Old versions of me, with the rage and the thirst,

Now they rap through my lungs like I’m cursed with a verse.

I can’t tell if I’m livin’ or a phantom on wax,

‘Cause the moment I spit, it’s like a soul attacks.

Every chorus is a coffin, every beat’s a grave,

But the ghost in the booth never stays enslaved.

There’s a ghost in the booth when I spit these lines,

Past me won’t sleep, keeps stealin’ my shine.

Echoes in the mic, like he’s still alive,

Tryna bury him deep but he just survives.

(Yeah, ghost in the booth…)

[Bridge] (beat drops, low eerie tone)

Voices in the static, they whisper my name,

Sayin’ “you’ll never outrun what you built in the flame.”

It’s a war with myself, every rhyme I create,

Is a message from the ghost that I can’t escape.

So I rhyme with the dead in the room that I built,

Every flow’s a confession, every line drips guilt.

If my spirit gets lost, then my words remain,

Immortality through pain in a haunted chain.

But maybe that’s the point, maybe ghosts are the proof,

That my voice will never die in this soundproof booth.

So I rap with the shadows, let ‘em ride the beat,

‘Cause the ghost in the booth is the fire in me.

There’s a ghost in the booth when I spit these lines,

Past me won’t sleep, keeps stealin’ my shine.

Echoes in the mic, like he’s still alive,

Tryna bury him deep but he just survives.

Ghost in the booth…

Yeah, he lives through the rhyme…

Ghost in the booth…

And he’s mine every time.