Coma Ghost

Bright lights
Too many sounds
Whose clothes on my floor now
What's that taste
Up in my mouth
Stand up, you got played
Take a bow
Bow down

Oh god, I'm doing slow death again
Allergic to zen, girl stand by with that Epi-Pen
If someone's in my bed that means I'm not thinking
And if I'm drinking with my demons
I'm not facing them
That fast life, I blow smoke
It's either high risk or comatose
There's no in-between, it's just sleep or go
Put in no work so it never shows
Has he been seen
Coma ghost
What's the one thing you'll never know
What it feels like to know
And then to be known

Bright lights
Too many sounds
Whose clothes on my floor now
What's that taste
Up in my mouth
Stand up, you got played
Take a bow
Bow down

Oneverse: work ethic ether
Twoverse refer to reefer
I've been scrubbin' away at the stains
But I can't seem to get 'em much cleaner
How you gonna come to terms
Everything makes you burn
Every time the lizard brain hurts
Spark it up and say you'll make change later
Never stop
This is weed, this is shrooms, this a blonde
Not a single one can purify your thoughts
Get lost, when I say I love you I believe it
What I mean is you are convenient
I don't know any other way, bad guy
I wish I was less Eilish
But every role model's goodbye to me surprise or Irish

Bright lights
Too many sounds
Whose clothes on my floor now
What's that taste
Up in my mouth
Stand up, you got played
Take a bow
Bow down

So it's settled then, Imma settle in
Gave it my best at being one of the better men
But Sisyphus is givin' in
Given the biochemical bent: Charlie Sheen on acetylene
No remorse, only amphetamines
Mr. Clean on the LinkedIn scene
Pig mask degenerate weekending
No place to go, so it's water treading
All I've ever wanted was to fight about the dumb shit
Why'd you buy the bigger barbecue, we can't afford it
Didn't want the Dr. Pepper, why the fuck you pour it
Not that I don't pray for love
Good Lord, it's just that fucked in the head
Wanna deliver the missus breakfast in bed
Syrup on your pancakes there, missus Butterworth
Trust, and faith, and grace, wanna raise up her worth
So sick of sex, rather put in love work
They say: gotta get better first
But I got this trauma curse
Stitches please, nurse
Close it up, actually: one more verse
No moral
Don't know what the lesson is
I present as a detriment
My hell: consequence of someone else's mess
The ability to love beaten out of my head
It's Eeyore to he whore
Ran out of coping mechanisms before
I can't bleed more, every day
More cracks in these floor
He just seem more dead

Fighting wars in my own head
If it'll never get better than
Fighting wars in my own bed
If it'll never get better, then