Sea to the left, See to my right To find another hopeless sight, Down below death drowns, I might not ever make it out, And yet I try to find my wade, Clueless about a certain fate, Must be a land somewhere That my purblind
You are layering up your expectations, Like I am expected To run on your word. You want of me To become Your idea of me, While my ideas smother in my head. What of my expectations? What of them, you ask. Who would hurt the most
Every second I am out of it. I feel like I am running out of time. That cliched image of me clinching sand as it slides past my palm paints the canvas in my head. I have created these little deadlines unknowingly, and I have
A balloon. Its thread tangled to a Rose Plant. It struggles with the wind. Comes close to being pricked, but rises again every time. Wants to break free. But is tied down by its thread that won’t let go. A sudden gush of wind flows.