I am not what I wanted to be.
I am not water, or wind, or free.
I cannot even pretend that I am,
because I am far too distanced from myself.

I did not become who I want to be.
I leave sticky notes upon every square inch
of my home to remind me of things that
probably aren't very important.

I am not free, or floating,
or empty of worries or darkness.
Perhaps I've lost each sense of direction,
and suddenly sold myself to a manual.

Suddenly, your favorite color isn't very
lovely anymore, and the clock you carry
in your pocket isn't correct anymore.

Because you first ignored your woes,
because 'an apple a day keeps the doctor away.'
But soon enough those woes consume you,
and you cannot ease them away anymore.

Your favorite place becomes infested,
and soon the air is too impure
because of some fallacy you created
that told you that it was.

Soon you cannot check the time anymore
because no matter which way the hands point,
that is not the time operating inside you, and,
the past, and the future eat you alive so much
that you cannot focus on the present.

The past weighs heavy on your shoulders,
and pushes you lower and lower, but,
the future inflates in your stomach and,
puffs you bigger and bigger.

Somehow I might pop like a stuffed up balloon
because even rubber or plastic cannot resist
such pressure.