[Intro — skit] (piano cupo, hi-hat secco) THERAPIST: “Okay, Marshall… why are you here today?” MARSHALL BLIGHT: “Because my head’s a waiting room with no receptionist.” THERAPIST: “We’ll use ‘I feel’ statements.” BLIGHT: “I feel… like a lawsuit with legs.” THERAPIST: “Deep breath.” BLIGHT: “I did. My thoughts held it hostage.” THERAPIST: “Let’s begin.” (chair squeak — beat drops) [Verse 1 — comic] (bouncy, punchy) Walked in like “Doc, I’m fine”—lie on a fine line, smile so bright it could blind a crime-scene pipeline. I’m the “nice guy” mask with a knife-edge grin (no stab), just sharp with the tongue, make a room feel thin—jab. Clipboard judge? I’m the case and the prosecutor, two voices in my skull play “good cop / computer.” I crack jokes when I choke, that’s my coping confetti, laugh so loud I forget I’m not okay already. “Tell me about your anger.” Cool—here’s the tour: it’s a theme park in my chest with a broken secure. I got trauma in the trunk next to snacks and receipts, and a GPS that screams when I’m back in these streets. I’m a sitcom with a glitch, punchline with a bruise, I’ll roast myself for dinner, then complain ’bout the news. So yeah, Doc, write it down: “patient’s witty, unstable,” I’m the magic trick that saws himself on the table. [Hook — cantato amaro] (simple, sticky) In the therapy booth, I’m two men in one, One cracks a joke—one wants to run. Say I’m “healing,” but I’m feeling numb, Dark piano prayin’ while the dry drums thump. In the therapy booth… don’t look too close— The laugh is loud, but the love is broke. [Verse 2 — tecnico] (faster, internal rhymes, switch-ups) (double-time) I’m pen-pressure, stress-measure, breath-checker, neck-tension, text-messages left unread like a self-intervention. I got multi-layer rage in a tighter cage, turn a diary page to a minor stage—then detonate. Internal rhyme ricochet: I’m a pinball brain, tilt the table, guilt label, feel fatal but still “okay.” (switch to half-time, heavier) They want “progress”—I want quiet in my bloodstream, but my mind runs laps like it’s training for a bad dream. I’m a character actor in my own confession, Oscar for repression, nominated for obsession. (back to double-time) I’m the villain and victim in a spinning mirror, my humor gettin’ meaner the closer I get nearer to the truth: I’m scared of love ’cause love got teeth, not bite-bite, just… it leaves when you need it to breathe. So I speed-talk, bleed-thoughts, keep a show on the rail, hit punchlines like punch clocks—never clockin’ I’m frail. [Bridge — cambio tempo] (beat drops, then returns faster) THERAPIST (spoken): “When you joke, what are you avoiding?” (silence — piano note holds) BLIGHT (whisper): “The part where I admit I’m lonely.” (tempo flips — hi-hats stutter) BLIGHT: “Alright… no more circus. Round three.” [Verse 3 — confession] (slower, direct, sentences that hit) I left letters unsent ’cause I hate goodbyes, and I keep my mother’s voice in the back of my eyes. She said, “Be a man,” but I heard “Be a wall,” so I bricked up my feelings and I boarded the hall. Friends I lost? Not always death—sometimes distance, sometimes I was hard to love with my loud resistance. I weaponized laughter so nobody could see how shame does push-ups on the side of me. I said “I don’t care”—that was coward code, ’cause caring’s a risk when you’ve tasted “alone.” I’m not askin’ for saving, I’m asking for time, to unlearn the survival that I dressed up as “fine.” So here’s the clean hook, the last honest swing: I don’t want to win the room— I just want to feel something. [Hook / Outro — più corale] In the therapy booth, I’m two men in one, One cracks a joke—one wants to run. Say I’m “healing,” but I’m feeling numb, Dark piano prayin’ while the dry drums thump. In the therapy booth… don’t look too close— The laugh is loud, but the love is broke. *(ad-libs: “yeah…”, “mm…”, “still here…”) *
