Performance/Production Notes:
- Vocal: boy voice, male, 16–17 years old. Register: upper-teen chest/mix. Delivery: close-mic intimacy, slight breathiness, reverb-wet.
- Production: sparse electric guitar & piano, lo-fi brushed drums, quiet bass. Intimate backing harmonies on final chorus. Dynamics: keep first chorus small and confessional; let the second chorus bloom slightly for contrast.
(Verse 1)
Cracked screen, midnight numbers I don't call,
Bus ticket in my pocket from the last fall.
Skate wheels gone flat on a winter day,
Lockers full of songs I never played.
I pass the corner where we used to meet,
Graffiti smiles, my shoes remember the street.
I say I’m fine; my voice is thin and small,
There's a name I whisper when the night calls.
(Pre-Chorus)
Low hum of the subway, a throat that won't speak,
Small excuses pile up like coins in my jeans.
(Chorus — quiet, confessional)
They call me a bad person — I count the nights I lied,
I keep the light low, keep the photographs inside.
I call it truth but it tastes like glass,
I collect the reasons and watch them pass.
I'm a bad person, I say it soft and slow,
A pocketful of apologies I never let go.
(Verse 2)
Cold coffee, a page with scribbled lines,
A cracked cassette of the worst of times.
I hand back favors I can't ever keep,
Leave voicemails that sink me into sleep.
The corner store clerk knows my slow routes,
Knows my favorite lie and my loud doubts.
I walk the same block with my shoulders bent,
Counting all the ways my good days went.
(Pre-Chorus)
Streetlight confession, breath fogs on the glass,
Words fall like receipts from a life in the past.
(Chorus — fuller, questions mixed with melody)
They call me a bad person — I count the nights I couldn't stay,
I fold my reasons like bus tickets and watch them fray.
I call it truth but maybe it’s just the mask I wear,
I collect broken choices like glass and stare.
I'm a bad person — the phrase hangs thin and loud,
But sometimes it’s a whisper lost inside a crowd.
(Bridge)
No hero lines, no tidy thread to sew,
Just a kid with trembling hands and a slow radio.
Maybe the map's torn but the street still bends,
Maybe the smallest light waits at the end.
I don't have sermons, I have a quiet plan:
To learn the shape of my own two hands.
(Chorus — final, layered harmonies, rising)
They call me a bad person — I count the nights I lied,
I keep the light low, keep the photographs inside.
I call it truth but it breaks like glass,
I collect the reasons, then put them in my past.
I'm a bad person — sometimes I say it like a prayer,
A small, honest echo that floats into bare air.
(Outro)
Phone on the table, city hum below,
I whisper my name — it’s soft, it’s slow.
No applause, no fix, just this sentence that lasts:
A boy with a pocket full of broken glass.
Fade out on a single note, reverb washing over the last line.
