This is not refusal of happiness
A desperate plea for attention
It is a manifest of emotion
Not some imaginary invention

There is a madness populating my head
Billions of shouting ugly voices
Every one an echo of my own
Spelling my lack of choices

Lately hopeless feelings have grown
A desolate cold orchard
Blossomed a place I belong
I'm welcome but also tortured

I have laid down my roots in quicksand
I'll be withered by afternoon
A pile of wilted petals
Unless I am picked by someone soon

They made me worry about quicksand a lot as a kid.
Giving me little bits of advice to keep in mind:
Don't move too much you'll go down faster!
If you're stuck just hold onto something!
As if it really was an all too common problem in the stale suburbs.
But I realize now quicksand isn't just one thing. It has many different names.
Don't let it swallow you up!
Just ask for help!
How do I do that?
I tried to hang on and not let it consume me,
But here I am, drowning in quicksand.