Clock hits six and the world turns gray,
Alarm screaming murder at the start of my day,
Cheap coffee scalds the hole in my lip,
I stare at the mirror, can’t remember shit—
My tie’s too tight, my eyes are sore,
Boss barking orders I’ve heard before,
There’s a ringing in my head that won’t let go,
Sounds like laughter, but nobody knows.
Fluorescent lights, the hum, the haze,
Emails stacking up, I forget what is says,
There’s a girl at the bar with a motel grin,
She likes broken men and the taste of my sin—
We fuck in the dark, both dead on our feet,
She calls me “baby” leaves me weak,
I tell her my dreams taste like copper and rain,
She laughs like a ghost and asks for my name.
Monday’s ghost, right behind my eyes,
Old house in the nightmare, bad blood in disguise,
Bills in a pile, voices in the wall,
Can’t outrun the echo of the old home’s call—
Just another day, stuck inside my skin,
Knuckles turning white as the headaches begin.
Punch the clock, punch the wall,
Hide the bottle, try to stall—
The room starts spinning, my hands start to shake,
That old taste of copper when I’m lying awake,
There’s something in the wallpaper scratching my brain,
Can’t remember her face but I remember the pain—
Night after night I dream I never escaped,
That house full of shadows, that voice with my shape.
The water runs rusty, the paint flakes off,
I pour myself double and I cough and I cough—
Sometimes in the morning, I swear I see red,
Just a drop on the sink, or a dream in my head.
Monday’s ghost, riding shotgun again,
Eyes in the rearview, the cracks in my grin,
Pressure keeps building, the world keeps score,
I’m just an old key rattling behind a locked door—
Monday’s ghost, always one step ahead,
Whispering sweet things about being dead.
One more sunrise, one more bill,
I’m one bad headache from making the kill.