The shakes came back, I knew they would.
Tell me, mother, tell me I'm good.
Sometimes I think my back might buckle
from this near-dead weight I have not left.

I take it with me from birth to death,
just to see if I've gotten stronger,
just to see if it's left.

The burden keeps me up at night.
It is the reason for this fight
against myself or a younger me,
someone else's soul, I hope.

Is this my necklace made of rope?
Or an illusion just to create
a justification, a way to cope.

Sin takes hold, I knew it would.
What was the word? Righteous? Good?
Maybe I should've paid more attention
to the speech, not the speaker.

Faith has left and made me weaker.
The only magical transform.
But I'm not magic, nor a messiah,
just a sinner, sunken deeper.