I am feeling more and more hopeless; the things I work for seem to be slipping,
I cannot remember the last time I was stress free, or smiled without force
Baking and braising seem to have become some of the only words I can muster
Whipping and traying are the only things I can get too
I have forgotten what it is like to achieve a dream: dreamt
At least I still have the power of solace, and the memory of time
The death of my childhood, and the birth of responsibility
I have become something my mother is proud of, and my father disowned
Empty spaces within the fridge magnets of lands afar,
The farther away, the closer to home,
Its slipping, life, loss, lust, its falling
Nothing to show for the things have done,
Killing myself and a hold over my lungs
I stopped eating when it slows me down
Shut my eyes, the doors are closed
