I feel my heart buckling under pressure I beg it to bear
I screamed quietly last night and my brain snapped in half
How strong, how prideful, how immortal I was
How conceited, how terribly much I thought of myself in the past.

Allow me to state that I am weak. Allow me to say that I am done.
When night falls I tremble with fear of something on the horizon
I feel my own body rip itself to shreds in some effort to save me
I truly wish I had savored my irresponsibility now that it's hard won.

Home. Only a year ago I cursed it. How conceited, how idiotic.
Your children will curse you to hell and regret when youth passes.
The mind I prided myself on having has deteriorated, I cannot think.
The sentences meld into unintelligible paragraphs of thoughts as slow as molasses.

I would sleep for an eternity if given the chance but my sweet, foolish, pride...
I would find peace and revel in it if not for the guilt of the method.
I futilely push away thoughts that constrict and wrap around me.
I must be stronger, do more, cannot bear to forgive myself should I do as I please.

Others have done what I am choosing to do and succeeded; my failure won't be justified
I must stand tall until my back breaks, I must smile until my lips quake
I must try harder until my body bleeds, I must give more until there's nothing left of me.
And if I fail, at least I know I jumped, even if I was far too late.

My dreams no longer consist of impossibilities that I will drag into being.
When I sleep, I am plagued by the sight of my own death in a multitude of ways.
When I wake, I miss the simplicity of the horror of the same dreams I ran from.
All the thoughts I used to have now only come after careful contemplation over many days.

I am unsure of who I am. I feel, sometimes, that I am merely watching a play.
That I am just a spectator to a caricature of myself, crudely pretending to be me.
And I would believe in that wholeheartedly if I was unaware of life's inane ways.

If things truly do get better, I wonder if they will do so in time to save me.

How conceited, how foolish, how narcissistic, how self-important, how desperate, how crazed, how terribly, terribly deluded I've grown to be.
How idiotic, this new view of myself and life that I've misnamed maturity.