Good and FiNe (Remastered)

The track lives in a dark alt-metal space with emotional grit and slow-burn tension, Vocals start low, strained, and intimate, almost like they’re trying not to brea, then build into a raw, open-throat release in the hook—gravel around the edges, harmonies stacked in tense intervals, Whispered layers thread through the pre-chorus, creating a sense of pressure rising under the surface, Guitars sit in a low tuning, clean and chorus-kissed in the verses, turning into thick, saturated distortion in the heavy sections, Lead lines weave in hypnotic, looping patterns while palm-muted rhythms drive underneath, Bass is deep and melodic, anchoring the odd-meter undercurrents, Drums rely on tribal tom patterns, syncopated hits, and slow crescendos that feel ritualistic, Mix is moody, spacious, and immersive: wide stereo delays, long-tail reverb, subtle rumble, and a tight, punchy center that makes the emotional collapse feel seismic, trap, dark acid rap, duet vocals, uprising, feelings, drama

I been tryna hold this world on busted knuckles,
tryna keep my voice from shaking when my truth crumbles,
tryna smile like the sky ain’t bending over me,
like the floor ain’t cracking open where I stand—
(step light, step light, step light)
but the cracks keep humming,
the walls keep humming,
and my chest keeps sinking like a ship half-summed into the dark.

And everybody’s asking,
“you good?”
and I say “yeah,”
but my breath is lying for me,
my heartbeat argues back—
(thump-thump / thump—drop—)
my ribs echo like they’re made of wires pulled too tight,
sparking, snapping, singing in distorted tones
that don’t belong to peace.

I keep saying “I’m fine” like it’s a spell,
like I can manifest calm if I chant it long enough,
but the room knows better,
the shadows know better,
even my voice cracks in protest—
(don’t break, don’t break, not here, not now)
but the break is already blooming.

I lock the bathroom door
like it’s my last defense,
hands on the sink, head down,
water running just loud enough
to drown the shaking in my breath.
(inhale—hold—exhale—lose it)
My reflection looks like someone halfway gone,
someone trying to glue herself back together
with trembling fingers and whispered promises.

“Im fine,” I say again.
(say it again)
“Im fine,” softer.
(again)
“Im… fine…”
(liar—liar—liar)

Every version tastes different,
each one weaker,
like the sentence is wearing out
and I’m wearing out with it.

My mind’s a stadium of echoes—
shouting, hissing, arguing,
every fear taking turns grabbing the mic:
(“you’re too much”)
(“you’re not enough”)
(“why you always ruin things”)
(“just breathe—no not like that—try again—try again—”)
a whole choir of chaos tuning itself
to the key of my unraveling.

I try to lift my voice—
soft, trembling, breaking like wet porcelain—
the way the stormiest songs rise from a cracked center,
the way sorrow becomes a melody
when you run out of ways to hide it.
My throat burns but sings anyway,
some wordless cry,
some broken hum,
something halfway between prayer and surrender.

And in the distance of my own headspace
I hear the ghost of a harmony,
fragile, trembling,
like someone I used to be is trying to pull me back—
(come home, come home, come back to me)
a second voice layering over mine,
lifting, shaking, rising
like a cracked cathedral note.

But then the chaos swells—
static in my left ear,
whispers in the right,
heartbeat pounding like war drums:
(boom—boom—boom—BOOM—)
and the tears come fast,
hot, heavy, refusing to be swallowed this time.

I drop to the floor,
knees to chest,
arms wrapped tight like a cage I built for myself,
and the truth finally rips free:
“I’m not fine.”
(THERE it is—finally—finally)
“I’m not fine.”
(louder—let it rip)
“I’M NOT FINE.”
(scream it / bleed it / release it)

And the room seems to breathe with me,
like it’s been waiting for the truth,
waiting for the dam to break.
I shake,
I sob,
I claw my way through the feeling
until the feeling softens.

The chaos dims—
static thinning out,
whispers fading,
heartbeat leveling into something almost human.
(easy now / easy now)

I wipe my face,
stand slowly,
look at the mirror again.
I don’t look fine,
I look real—
eyes swollen,
cheeks flushed,
but something inside steadier than before.

“I’m not fine,” I repeat,
soft, honest, trembling.
And somehow saying it
makes space for air again.
The walls don’t echo back a lie this time.
The floor doesn’t tilt beneath me.
The truth hangs gently in the room,
bare,
raw,
and mercifully mine.

So when I whisper,
“I’m fine…”
(pause—listen—breathe)
I add the truth beneath it:
“…but I’m trying.”
(and that’s real / that’s enough / that’s you)

3825/7500

Im fine, im fine, im fine— (yeah, breathe, just breathe) for real, im good, im ok, im fine— (don’t look too close, don’t ask) no im not… it’s just a line… (shhh—hide it, hide it, hide it) I been tryna hold this world on busted knuckles, tryna keep my voice from shaking when my truth crumbles, tryna smile like the sky ain’t bending over me, like the floor ain’t cracking open where I stand— (step light, step light, step light) but the cracks keep humming, the walls keep humming, and my chest keeps sinking like a ship half-summed into the dark. And everybody’s asking, “you good?” and I say “yeah,” but my breath is lying for me, my heartbeat argues back— (thump-thump / thump—drop—) my ribs echo like they’re made of wires pulled too tight, sparking, snapping, singing in distorted tones that don’t belong to peace. I keep saying “I’m fine” like it’s a spell, like I can manifest calm if I chant it long enough, but the room knows better, the shadows know better, even my voice cracks in protest— (don’t break, don’t break, not here, not now) but the break is already blooming. I lock the bathroom door like it’s my last defense, hands on the sink, head down, water running just loud enough to drown the shaking in my breath. (inhale—hold—exhale—lose it) My reflection looks like someone halfway gone, someone trying to glue herself back together with trembling fingers and whispered promises. “Im fine,” I say again. (say it again) “Im fine,” softer. (again) “Im… fine…” (liar—liar—liar) Every version tastes different, each one weaker, like the sentence is wearing out and I’m wearing out with it. My mind’s a stadium of echoes— shouting, hissing, arguing, every fear taking turns grabbing the mic: (“you’re too much”) (“you’re not enough”) (“why you always ruin things”) (“just breathe—no not like that—try again—try again—”) a whole choir of chaos tuning itself to the key of my unraveling. I try to lift my voice— soft, trembling, breaking like wet porcelain— the way the stormiest songs rise from a cracked center, the way sorrow becomes a melody when you run out of ways to hide it. My throat burns but sings anyway, some wordless cry, some broken hum, something halfway between prayer and surrender. And in the distance of my own headspace I hear the ghost of a harmony, fragile, trembling, like someone I used to be is trying to pull me back— (come home, come home, come back to me) a second voice layering over mine, lifting, shaking, rising like a cracked cathedral note. But then the chaos swells— static in my left ear, whispers in the right, heartbeat pounding like war drums: (boom—boom—boom—BOOM—) and the tears come fast, hot, heavy, refusing to be swallowed this time. I drop to the floor, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight like a cage I built for myself, and the truth finally rips free: “I’m not fine.” (THERE it is—finally—finally) “I’m not fine.” (louder—let it rip) “I’M NOT FINE.” (scream it / bleed it / release it) And the room seems to breathe with me, like it’s been waiting for the truth, waiting for the dam to break. I shake, I sob, I claw my way through the feeling until the feeling softens. The chaos dims— static thinning out, whispers fading, heartbeat leveling into something almost human. (easy now / easy now) I wipe my face, stand slowly, look at the mirror again. I don’t look fine, I look real— eyes swollen, cheeks flushed, but something inside steadier than before. “I’m not fine,” I repeat, soft, honest, trembling. And somehow saying it makes space for air again. The walls don’t echo back a lie this time. The floor doesn’t tilt beneath me. The truth hangs gently in the room, bare, raw, and mercifully mine. So when I whisper, “I’m fine…” (pause—listen—breathe) I add the truth beneath it: “…but I’m trying.” (and that’s real / that’s enough / that’s you)

0/500