[Verse 1] Another day. Eyes open. Body down. Morning comes without making a sound. Another day wearing yesterday’s weight. So tell me— Am I dead inside, or just outside too late? I drink something cold just to feel something move. Sugar hits my tongue, but it never gets through. Another can cracks. Another promise in aluminum. Bright little colors saying, "Come on. Here's your momentum." But the fizz goes flat. Caffeine fades. My hands stay heavy. My head stays dim. I stand in the kitchen waiting for chemicals to teach me to rise. They don't. They only make my heart race while the rest of me dies. [Pre-Chorus] So what is this? Lazy? Broken? Burned through? A pulse in a body that refuses to move? I keep asking the mirror— Am I dead inside, or dead inside and out? [Chorus] AM I DEAD INSIDE OR OUT? IS THERE ANYTHING LEFT TO DRAG ME OUT? I'M SICK OF WAITING FOR A SURGE TO COME, SICK OF BEGGING MY BLOOD TO RUN. NO DRINK, NO BUZZ, NO CHEMICAL KICK IS GONNA BUILD A SPINE IN A BODY THIS SICK. SO IF WILLPOWER'S ALL THAT'S ANSWERING NOW— THEN I'LL BITE DOWN HARD AND PULL MYSELF OUT. AM I DEAD INSIDE OR OUT? DON'T GIVE ME COMFORT— GIVE ME A WAY OUT. [Verse 2] There are mornings when lifting my head feels like asking a grave to give back the dead. The floor looks gentle. The bed looks kind. Every soft surface says, "Stay down." Maybe fatigue has learned how to pray. "Stay still." "You've done enough." Discipline doesn't promise tomorrow. It just points at the door— Move. One foot. Then follow. No miracle. No hidden reserve. Just breath. Then motion. Then one more doubt. Am I dead inside— or just too tired to climb out? [Verse 3] I keep looking for hunger inside an emptied chest. Five minutes become fifty. An hour becomes shame. Maybe strength is just movement while nothing is there. Maybe discipline isn't fearless. Maybe it's shaking and still using your hands. Maybe willpower is ugly and slow. Not heroic. Just refusing to let your body say no. [Pre-Chorus] I don't need another promise. I need something in me that survives being wasted. If the body won't carry me— I'll crawl. If the mind says, "Finished." I'll answer— "Not you." [Chorus] AM I DEAD INSIDE OR OUT? IS THERE ANYTHING LEFT TO DRAG ME OUT? I'M SICK OF WAITING FOR A SURGE TO COME, SICK OF BEGGING MY BLOOD TO RUN. NO DRINK, NO BUZZ, NO CHEMICAL KICK IS GONNA BUILD A SPINE IN A BODY THIS SICK. SO IF WILLPOWER'S ALL THAT'S ANSWERING NOW— THEN I'LL BITE DOWN HARD AND PULL MYSELF OUT. AM I DEAD INSIDE OR OUT? I'M STILL MAKING NOISE. SO I'M NOT DONE NOW. [Bridge] Then the legs give out. No metaphor. Just knees. Hands. The floor. A voice says— Get it up. I laugh. Nothing moves. Again— Get it up. One more time. Not forever. Not healed. Not strong. Just up. One foot. One hand. I'm not ready. I'm not better. But I'm— Up. Then let the whole dead weight come with me. [Final Chorus] AM I DEAD INSIDE OR OUT? I GOT BACK UP— THAT'S YOUR ANSWER NOW. I'M DONE WITH WAITING FOR A SURGE TO COME. I'LL MOVE THIS BODY IF I HAVE TO DRAG ONE. NO DRINK. NO BUZZ. NO CHEMICAL KICK. IT WAS WILLPOWER— UGLY, RAW, AND LOUD. IT WAS ONE MORE RISE WHEN I HIT THE GROUND. AM I DEAD INSIDE OR OUT? I'M STILL ON MY FEET. I'M STILL SHOUTING IT OUT. NO MIRACLE SAVED ME. I JUST HEARD— "ONE MORE TIME." AND GOT OFF THE GROUND. [Outro] Tomorrow I may ask it again. Am I dead inside or out? But tonight— I stood up. For now, that counts.
