Dark Thoughts
Dark atmospheric alternative metal fused with djazz-soul textures and subtle industrial elements, Intimate baritone lead in verses, warm and close-mic with breath detail
JUSIME·4:50
4:50
Dark Thoughts
Dark atmospheric alternative metal fused with djazz-soul textures and subtle industrial elements, Intimate baritone lead in verses, warm and close-mic with breath detail
Creator: JUSIMERelease Date: March 14, 2026
Lyrics
There’s a version of me
that only exists after midnight.
He counts the flaws in the dark
like they’re constellations,
calls it honesty.
Breathing feels supervised.
Even silence has commentary.
I weigh myself in glances.
Too wide for the frame.
Too slow for the race
I never agreed to run.
Every mirror bends a little
when I step in front of it.
Not the glass, just the story in my head.
I rehearse apologies
for taking up space.
For being tired.
For not being unbreakable.
It says discipline is love.
Says pressure builds diamonds.
But I’m not carbon,
I’m skin and pulse and memory.
Please save me from my dark thoughts,
they wear my voice but twist the tone.
They turn “not perfect” into “worthless,”
make every crowded room alone.
They say I’m too heavy to be held,
too fractured to be shown.
Please save me from my dark thoughts,
before they start to feel like home.
Feel like home...
Panic arrives without language.
Just a pulse misfiring.
My chest tightens its architecture
like it’s bracing for collapse.
I cling to the few names
that still feel warm in my mouth.
Afraid if I loosen my grip
I’ll evaporate into static.
The worst part,
no one else hears it.
The running commentary.
The constant audit.
The quiet arithmetic of self-erasure.
It says “be better.”
Never defines better.
Moves the finish line
every time I get close.
Please save me from my dark thoughts,
they wear my voice but twist the tone.
They turn small doubts into verdicts,
build a courtroom in my bones.
They say I’m too heavy to be held,
too fractured to be shown.
Please save me from my dark thoughts,
before they start to feel like home.
If I’m the author of this damage,
why does it read like someone else?
Why does survival feel selfish
when I’m just trying to be well?
I am not the echo.
I am not the weight.
I am not the thing that I hate!
Please save me from my dark thoughts,
they wear my voice but twist the tone.
They almost feel protective,
like I’d be nothing on my own.
They say I’m too heavy to be held,
too fractured to be shown.
Please save me from my dark thoughts,
before they start to feel like home.
Don’t let it feel like home.
that only exists after midnight.
He counts the flaws in the dark
like they’re constellations,
calls it honesty.
Breathing feels supervised.
Even silence has commentary.
I weigh myself in glances.
Too wide for the frame.
Too slow for the race
I never agreed to run.
Every mirror bends a little
when I step in front of it.
Not the glass, just the story in my head.
I rehearse apologies
for taking up space.
For being tired.
For not being unbreakable.
It says discipline is love.
Says pressure builds diamonds.
But I’m not carbon,
I’m skin and pulse and memory.
Please save me from my dark thoughts,
they wear my voice but twist the tone.
They turn “not perfect” into “worthless,”
make every crowded room alone.
They say I’m too heavy to be held,
too fractured to be shown.
Please save me from my dark thoughts,
before they start to feel like home.
Feel like home...
Panic arrives without language.
Just a pulse misfiring.
My chest tightens its architecture
like it’s bracing for collapse.
I cling to the few names
that still feel warm in my mouth.
Afraid if I loosen my grip
I’ll evaporate into static.
The worst part,
no one else hears it.
The running commentary.
The constant audit.
The quiet arithmetic of self-erasure.
It says “be better.”
Never defines better.
Moves the finish line
every time I get close.
Please save me from my dark thoughts,
they wear my voice but twist the tone.
They turn small doubts into verdicts,
build a courtroom in my bones.
They say I’m too heavy to be held,
too fractured to be shown.
Please save me from my dark thoughts,
before they start to feel like home.
If I’m the author of this damage,
why does it read like someone else?
Why does survival feel selfish
when I’m just trying to be well?
I am not the echo.
I am not the weight.
I am not the thing that I hate!
Please save me from my dark thoughts,
they wear my voice but twist the tone.
They almost feel protective,
like I’d be nothing on my own.
They say I’m too heavy to be held,
too fractured to be shown.
Please save me from my dark thoughts,
before they start to feel like home.
Don’t let it feel like home.