Low battery

Intro (spoken, low)
I’m not falling apart.
I’m just running on less.
Verse 1
Wake up drained before the day begins,
like sleep just charged the wrong things.
Body moves but the spark feels thin,
smile works but it don’t plug in.
I’m responsive, I reply on cue,
do what I’m supposed to do.
But underneath there’s flicker and lag,
like something critical slipped through cracks.
People say I seem composed,
steady pulse, controlled.
They don’t see the warning sign
blinking slow in the background mode.
I keep telling myself I’ll rest,
after this, after next.
But “after” keeps stretching out,
and I don’t disconnect.
Even joy feels low in tone,
muted colors, overthrown.
Not sad enough to sound alarms —
just tired in my bones.
Hook
Low battery, still running,
barely lit but functioning.
I don’t crash, I dim instead,
moving slow inside my head.
If I power down, I’m scared I’ll see
what’s actually draining me.
So I stay on, even when
I’m almost empty again.
Verse 2
I don’t quit, I just go quiet,
conserve the words, don’t try it.
Keep my circle tight and small,
less demand, less fall.
I’ve gotten good at giving less
while looking like my best.
Minimum output, maximum mask,
energy rationed by task.
I don’t explode, I fade away,
one percent each passing day.
Tell myself it’s discipline —
really it’s survival in thin skin.
Sometimes I want to unplug it all,
let the system stall.
But I’m scared if I go fully dark,
I won’t restart at all.
Bridge (quiet)
Maybe I don’t need more charge.
Maybe I need less demand.
Less proving.
Less pretending I’m fine.
Final Hook
Low battery, still awake,
running off what’s left to take.
I don’t need bright, I don’t need loud —
just enough to move through crowds.
Maybe one day I’ll shut it down
without feeling like I drowned.
Till then I glow, thin and steady —
not full…
but not gone already.
Outro (spoken)
I’m not broken.
I’m just tired of pretending
I’m not.

Depression, rap, male vocals