How do I convey myself in the hobbies I've kept close
How am I supposed to fabricate originality if I keep needing a higher dose
of the drug that keeps waters calm and skies clear
my dear
I feel a storm coming
about noon of every day
thoughts begin constricting in unnoticeable ways
strangling hope and taunting fear
I swear I hear
the scream I can't make
or maybe it's the doubt I couldn't shake
the existence that I fake
or the pieces I let people take
And I'm sorry now for realizing how I made them believe I'm the same
but I'm so wise for my age
I've torn down my own way.