(Verse 1) The morning light is an accusation, A gold-plated dose of pure humiliation. I blink at the ceiling, the same one I know, And the Thought puts its boots on, says, "Ready? Let's go." It brews in the coffee, it taints the toast's taste, A sourceless shadow that moves with no haste. I fumble with shoelaces, simple and plain, While the Thought hums a ballad of sorrow and pain. (Chorus) And it colors the daylight a chemical gray. It steals the last word I was meaning to say. It turns a friend's laughter to noise in a jar. It makes the near future seem galactically far. It's not a loud screaming, it's quiet, it's sly, A switch in the bloodstream, a hole in the sky. It sifts every moment for proof it is right, And it dims every potential from brilliant to slight. (Verse 2) I nod in a conversation, I form a weak smile, Playing a person for a little while. But the script I'm reciting is starting to blur, 'Cause the Thought's doing laps, a low, constant whir. It sabotages outlooks before they take wing, Finds the sad minor chord in the simplest thing. "A nice day," you offer. The Thought gives a smirk, And translates it instantly: "A pointless piece of work." (Chorus) And it colors the daylight a chemical gray. It steals the last word I was meaning to say. It turns a friend's laughter to noise in a jar. It makes the near future seem galactically far. It's not a loud screaming, it's quiet, it's sly, A switch in the bloodstream, a hole in the sky. It sifts every moment for proof it is right, And it dims every potential from brilliant to slight. (Bridge) The quality of life becomes life on a shelf. I'm not fighting a demon, I'm fighting myself. The anger's a fire, but it burns in a cage, Directed inward with silent, white rage. Disappointment's my shadow, my familiar, my ghost. The thing I have managed to value the most. Degrading. Yes. Like a slow, steady rust, A beautiful statue returned into dust. The Thought is the sculptor, the weather, and thief, And my only relief is in picturing... relief. (Outro) So you ask for the secret I've carried for years, Through the manufactured laughter, the un-shed tears... The guest in my skull that unpacks and will stay, To systematically dismantle my day... The only true constant, the only sure plan, Since the chaos of childhood first made me a man... The conclusion it writes on the wall every night... ...is just suicide. Not a cry. Not a threat. A logical, quiet tide. The answer the Thought has been polishing, side by side. So the weight in my chest, and the gray in the sky, Is just practice, for making the final thought... ...finally die.
