[Verse 1] Hospital light, fluorescent moon, another body begging pain to leave the room. Cancer, fever, nerves like wires, whole nervous systems communicating through fires. The world keeps bleeding through a television screen, sirens stitching cities to another tragedy. War tastes metallic from a thousand miles away, like bullets turned to weather hanging iron in the rain. [Chorus] CHRONIC— when tomorrow hurts before it arrives. CHRONIC— when surviving becomes nine-to-five. Pressure makes diamonds, but that’s only half the phrase: too much pressure breaks the vessel, too much fire consumes the clay. [Verse 2] Bodies aren’t failures because bodies become sick. Brains aren’t monsters because reality gets thick. Pain isn’t character. Illness isn’t sin. The battle is learning what deserves to enter in. [Bridge] Taste the iron. Hear the bells. History has manufactured a thousand artificial Hells. Still somebody somewhere bandages somebody’s hand. That tiny act of mercy is how humanity still stands.
