This thing I thought I could grasp,
Desperately I try to hold on to it,
This thing I never had,
I knew this illusion wouldn’t last,

It disappears as soon as we reach for it,
It’s as thin as the mountain air,

For a moment we lie to ourselves,
placing it securely and safely on a shelf.
Even though it is a forced perception, A contrived illusion.
Once we leave the room...
As soon as we lock and bolt the door...
we wont see it anymore.

We never realize the freedom there is in letting go,

We would be happier admitting this concept is completely fictitious.
We could break this circular pattern, this cycle so vicious.

I've spent too much time trying to hold it in my hands,
Making myself the victim of my own laid out plans.

Here comes the 'Rush Hour';
Commuters in a hurry
just to get a seat.

We're too focused to take a breath,
to revel in the breeze,
we'll chase this to our death,
rather than our dreams,
Our search for happiness and adventure gone,
instead we bide our time,
wait around til we're 65,
then we can be truly alive.

our sense of adventure traded for small escapes,
were it up to us would we choose this fate?

We lose sight of our connections,
our relationships being built on proximity
rather than intimacy.

When did we become so concerned with this disease,
this great epidemic,
spreading with ease,
Like a wildfire crackling up, branch to branch,
setting flame to the trees.
I hope one day we'll all see
that being too busy will **** our society.
We'll turn from this and choose to share,
Love will be the priority,
but you get to choose,
so choose wisely.

in the mind the thoughts flock
but the voice put to lock
as clicks the clock
an urge to unlock
but oh my god, can't write out the stock
yes i think it is writer's block...

the mind's mechanism is at work,
it doesn't sleep
the heart's sensors turned off,
it can't feel deep

feel disconnected, no hearty talk
life is not a smooth walk
the syllables knock
but the words mock
try to write as it's 11 o'clock
but oh my God, it's writer's block...