[Intro]
My brain's got twenty tabs open.
One of them's playing music.
I can't find it.
Welcome.
[Verse 1]
I wake up mad at a conversation
that I haven't even had yet,
already got a comeback ready
for a stranger I ain't met.
That's efficient.
Or pathetic.
Depends who writes the caption.
I can turn a minor problem
into twelve separate catastrophes.
Coffee hits.
Bad move.
Now the panic got a soundtrack.
Heart doing laps
while I'm standing on the doormat.
Phone says:
“Good morning.”
Don't get smart with me.
It's barely even morning
and reality already started charging fees.
Everybody says:
“Relax.”
Fantastic.
Why didn't I think of that?
Next time my whole head catches fire
I'll just politely ask it back.
“Excuse me, anxiety,
could you maybe keep it down?”
Yeah.
And maybe gravity
could stop pulling things toward the ground.
[Pre-Chorus]
No mute.
No pause.
No little red switch.
I tried meditation.
My thoughts started heckling it.
[Chorus]
THERE'S STATIC IN MY SKULL,
AND IT NEVER SHUTS UP.
EVERY THOUGHT GOT A KNIFE
AND THEY'RE ALL CUTTING IN FRONT.
STATIC IN MY SKULL,
I CAN'T TURN IT DOWN.
SO I TURN IT INTO WORDS
AND THROW THE WORDS AT THE CROWD.
No peace.
No filter.
No graceful way through.
If my head wants a war...
fine.
I brought a notebook too.
[Verse 2]
I overthink texts
like encrypted transmissions.
She wrote:
“Fine.”
That's not fine.
That's a tactical position.
No emoji?
Danger.
One emoji?
Could be bait.
Three dots?
Oh, that's psychological warfare.
Now we wait.
I'm staring at the screen
like the screen owes me closure.
Meanwhile she's probably eating cereal
and forgot the conversation was over.
Beautiful.
I built an entire courtroom
inside my imagination.
Judge, jury, prosecution,
all me.
No representation.
Then I wonder why I'm tired.
Maybe because every sentence
gets dissected, resurrected,
then inspected for intention.
Someone says:
“Don't take it personal.”
Brother, that's my specialty.
I can take weather personally.
Cloud looked weird?
Enemy.
[Chorus]
THERE'S STATIC IN MY SKULL,
AND IT NEVER SHUTS UP.
EVERY THOUGHT GOT A KNIFE
AND THEY'RE ALL CUTTING IN FRONT.
STATIC IN MY SKULL,
I CAN'T TURN IT DOWN.
SO I TURN IT INTO WORDS
AND THROW THE WORDS AT THE CROWD.
No peace.
No filter.
No graceful way through.
If my head wants a war...
fine.
I brought a notebook too.
[Verse 3]
Truth is,
jokes are easier
than saying I'm scared.
So I make everybody laugh
and act surprised when nobody hears
the part underneath it.
That's clever.
Real clever.
Build a personality out of armor
then complain nobody gets nearer.
I say:
“I don't need help.”
Translation:
“Please notice.”
But don't notice too much
or I'll panic and close it.
That's healthy.
Very mature.
Round of applause.
I spent years building walls
then got offended by the doors.
And ambition?
That's another little monster.
Never full.
Feed it a win,
it says:
“Cool.
What's next?”
No applause lasts long enough.
No number feels complete.
You can finally reach the mountain
and immediately hate the peak.
Because success is funny.
You dream about the view,
then stand there looking down
thinking:
“What else can I prove?”
[Bridge]
[Beat strips down]
Maybe I'm not chasing success.
Maybe I'm running from stillness.
Maybe if everything gets quiet...
I might actually hear myself.
[Silence]
Yeah.
Turn the beat back on.
[Final Verse – Double Time]
I got a mind like a motor with a brick on the pedal,
every little thought getting hotter than metal,
I can make a small doubt turn volcanic in seconds,
then joke about the wreckage like that's somehow impressive.
I've been measuring worth by the work I produce,
like if I stop for a minute then I got no excuse,
got a list of achievements and none of 'em stick,
'cause the second one's finished I'm already sick
of the silence that follows,
the hollow applause,
the “you made it” from people who don't know the cost,
all the nights I was pacing, rewriting the same line,
trying to turn every breakdown into some kind of punchline.
And maybe that's backwards.
Maybe pain ain't a product.
Maybe every ugly feeling
doesn't need to make content.
Maybe sometimes I'm allowed
to have a bad fucking day
without turning the whole thing
into something clever to say.
That's terrifying.
More than failure.
More than being ignored.
'Cause if I'm not performing...
who am I when I'm bored?
Who am I without proving?
Without winning?
Without noise?
Maybe just some guy
trying to live with his own voice.
[Final Chorus]
THERE'S STATIC IN MY SKULL.
YEAH.
IT'S STILL THERE.
BUT MAYBE I DON'T HAVE TO
TURN EVERY THOUGHT INTO FEAR.
STATIC IN MY SKULL.
LET IT TALK.
LET IT PASS.
NOT EVERY VOICE IN YOUR HEAD
DESERVES AN ANSWER BACK.
No peace?
Maybe later.
No miracle.
No cure.
Just one night
where I don't need
to understand everything
for sure.
[Outro]
My brain's got twenty tabs open.
...
I closed one.
Don't get excited.
