I tried to outrun the echo, but it echoed me instead... Now I'm talkin’ to the silence, makin’ shelters in my head... I scribble scripture in the margins of my nervous disposition, Every verse a small incision, every line a new admission. Caught between forgiveness and a fractured superstition, Sleepin’ with regret like it’s part of the tradition. Dreams turned grayscale, hope pixelates and scatters, Joy became a checklist, and pain’s what really matters. I’m tactically detached, emotionally erratic, Still dancin’ through disasters with a rhythm automatic. What do you do when the high won’t last? When the mirror cracks and it shows your past? I’m singin’ to ghosts with a voice full of rust, Still learnin’ how to build from dust... Anhedonia hymns in a downtown storm, Tryna stay warm in a world deformed. Where the smiles are scripted, the hope is thin, And the battles you win get buried within. Ohhh, I still sing... I still sing... But I don’t feel a thing... Connoisseur of coping cloaked in quiet contradictions, Spinning soliloquies to stitch up old afflictions. Still addicted to illusions that I’m more than my conditions, But dopamine’s delayed—like emotional eviction. My therapist said, “Write slow, heal fast,” But my pen’s got panic, so the verses just crash. Conducting memories in minor key decay, Orchestrating shadows I kept locked away. What do you feel when the feeling’s fake? When you breathe one time and your hands still shake? Humming lullabies laced in pain, Tryna find light in the midnight rain... Anhedonia hymns in a downtown storm, Tryna stay warm in a world deformed. Where the smiles are scripted, the hope is thin, And the battles you win get buried within. Ohhh, I still sing... I still sing... But I don’t feel a thing... 🎶 Maybe healing ain’t heroic... Maybe survival’s quiet... Maybe I’m here, not to win, But to teach my shadow how to sit beside it. I still sing... I still sing... Even if I don’t feel a thing... Mmm... still sing...
