Everything I attempt to write
  seems as if I'm forcing the words from underneath my tongue.
I am one, among many,
          and there are plenty more where I came from.

My DNA is shared and swapped.
I am a drop in the sea of infinite combinations... but here I am.

I suppose it'd be nice to believe that my life is planned.
That I am heaven sent, and I should spend each day paving my way
  in hopes of reaching some sort of divine ending,
  but I'm still mending, from what my past has lent me,
  and I bet everything I have that this will take a while.

I am a child,
  a horse running wild, carrying my baggage behind me.
But don't remind me,
  'cause that's what the whisky is for.

And yet, no matter how depressed,
    or blue, or just like you I become,
    I somehow find a reason for opening my eyes tomorrow.
I am a swallow.
Far too free to ever
                                be
                                      with
                                            anything.
I am medicine.
I will heal, and hold, and mend your cold, but I will soon be gone, as will you.
And this is the only truth that I am aware of
  aside from bugs, and trees, and creeks, and dreams.

We can try to hold onto something and make it our own.
We can attempt to lock it away for days and days,
    and wait for a place that will eventually become the word forever.
But I know; this is impossible.
Not probable.

Everything is a countdown.
      Three. Two. One...
                NOW.