The static speaks my name and it's driving me insane,
the night's stars are it's eyes and I watch it right back.
Shadows cast on the blame, but still lighting up the pain,
I'm covered up under the skies with a veil pitch black.

The silence overloads my brain, and each thought's wasted in vain,
with a million possibilities that will never occur.
I am shackled with a moral chain, but it supports me to refrain
from a sense of humility that I can't ever deter.

I find each locked door more outrageous,
and I'm left like before, wondering if I'm contagious.
Why would they comfort me instead,
of putting a gun straight to my head?

The static speaks my name with pronunciation it can't obtain,
if white noise could stutter it'd probably have quite the drawl.
Questioning if I should feel shame, if I'm a painting or a stain,
or just a curse you mutter like graffiti on the bathroom stall.

I find it all dizzying and real dangerous,
I'm wondering if my misery is contagious.
Why would they comfort me instead,
when they could just leave me in my bed?

The static shrieks,
the floorboard creaks,
the river's dry but the faucet leaks.
The static shrieks,
years came from weeks,
I live in quiet, only silence speaks.

I plan my life in different stages,
I wonder if my strife is contagious.
Why would you comfort me instead,
of letting me follow the path you led?