The pressure is finite,
Yet we wait for its bite.
Letting Time seed itself into thought.
Watching it grow to a fault within already suffocating memories.
Tasting the flavor of its rotten decay,
When all else is gone and lost.
Avoiding the touch of a mentality separate from our own.
Only because we reach out and connect with nothing but emptiness.
Witnessing our flesh pass through the colors of our savior's soul.
Tainting their existence with the blackness of our own.
Desperately waiting for the desire to want to change.
From who we were.
From who we are.
And with eyes wide shut,
Wanting to change ourselves from what we are going to become.
Holding tightly to every breath we breathe,
For a fear of letting it evolve into the next one.
And the next one.
And the next one.
Ultimately choking ourselves for a reason we cannot fathom.
Yet knowing it to be a muscle memory we cannot overcome.
From a life long past we scream into the dust that buried us.
Cursing our parents for dying before we flew.
And in the end...
Understanding fully well that we are here if for no other reason,
Than to break ourselves on rocks we cannot see,
And were never really there in the first place.