Weak Is Not My Name

Throughout the times I’ve busted, left out in the rain and slightly rusted, what dreams were truly trusted, to the only god we should have ever entrusted?

In and out of internal jail, the spirit inside to hail, the right to lose and to fail, could not fly on wings broken and frail.

Cause now I’m righteously angry, for once the master serves it dog, weak is not my name no more, no longer lost in fog.