[Verse 1]
Three a.m. in the kitchen, the fridge hums like it's thinking out loud,
phone sits at one percent, charger cord stretched out and proud,
that read receipt's still glowing blue on a message nobody claimed,
laundry pile's gone geological, got sediment, got a name,
lost the keys again Tuesday, found them nested in the sugar jar,
ninety-two little troubles logged and filed under "so far,"
I used to think the last one would wrap up clean and tight,
instead I've got a dripping faucet and a half-finished bite,
but the coffee's warm enough, the dog twitches through a dream,
the clock keeps ticking sideways but it hasn't stopped it seems,
ninety-three sits waiting, no tidy bow in sight,
just me, the kitchen table, and whatever I can write.
[Chorus]
Still here, still breathing, still writing songs,
the list got long, but I'm singing along,
still here, still breathing, still writing songs.
[Verse 2]
So I open the same notebook where the ninety-two got penned,
flip to the blank page marked ninety-three, not polished, not the end,
turns out you don't need permission to set a melody down,
just a place for it to land, a chorus, a sound,
there's a shelf where every one of these small songs gets to rest,
open to your one percent, your laundry, your own private mess,
no velvet rope out front, no judges, no locked and guarded door,
you bring your own lost key, your own uneven floor,
somebody else's problem ninety-four starts the second that yours ends,
the shelf keeps growing wider with however many pens,
it's not a stage, it's just a shelf, and the shelf's got room to spare,
whatever number you're counting, there's a verse that you can share.
[Verse 3]
Maybe you're the one who finds this shelf some rainy afternoon,
thumbing through the pages like you're searching for a tune,
you'll see the dog, the faucet, the keys lost in the jar,
and know somebody else was counting, wasn't perfect, wasn't far
from wherever you are standing with your own unfinished list,
your ninety-five, your hundred, whatever got dismissed,
there's no order to the counting, no finish line to chase,
just another folding chair pulled up to the same old place,
so add your verse whenever, there's no deadline on the shelf,
the song was never really mine, it was always somewhere in yourself.
[Bridge]
I won't tell you the laundry folds itself at last,
or the read receipt forgives you for the silence that you cast,
some nights the faucet drips the exact same tired song,
the hinge still creaks, the floor's still cold, the list is rarely wrong,
I'm not promising the ending, I'm not promising it's neat,
I'm only saying I'm still here, still upright on my feet.
[Chorus]
Still here, still breathing, still writing songs,
the list got long, but I'm singing along.
[Chorus]
Still here, still breathing, still writing songs,
the list got long, but I'm singing along,
still here, still breathing, still writing songs.