It’s hard to stand sometimes.
When doubt holds you down with such force that your shoulders cry out for the levity the weight of the world can provide.
See, it’s not that I’m afraid to fail. I’m just tired of doing it. And my outlook’s getting bleak.
I keep serving myself sentences that all end in Kurt Cobain exclamation points, or trail off into ellipses…
And I ask myself, when did I get so cynical?
But it’s easier to sleep 5 more minutes than it is to answer that question.
So I’m lying in bed just like Brian Wilson did.
Because I like the illusion that under the sheets, the world goes away.
Under the sheets, I’m safe.
The toy in the bottom of my own private box of cereal. Just begging for somebody to find me.
Filling out tax forms with my favourite blue crayon.
Waxing poetic through a waning spirit.
And I can hear it, the foghorn leading me to shore, but I’m steering starboard to avoid it because disembarking would mean stepping on solid ground that I’m just not ready to handle.
And this fog accepts me as a ghost within it. I could land. I could let myself be found.
But I want 5 more minutes.
There are times I just wanna go home.
I hated my childhood, but I really miss the perks.
Someone used to make sure I got out of bed. I never thanked them for it.
Maybe I’ll do that when I get up.
Maybe I’ll get to work on getting my life together, despite knowing I may just fail again.
Maybe I’ll show everyone that I’ve been worth it, that I haven’t been a waste of time. That when I apply myself, I can accomplish any single fucking thing that I want.
But then, maybe I’ll just count some sheep, go back to sleep, and hope, with my head in the sand, that everything will somehow work out.
When doubt holds you down with such force that your shoulders cry out for the levity the weight of the world can provide.
See, it’s not that I’m afraid to fail. I’m just tired of doing it. And my outlook’s getting bleak.
I keep serving myself sentences that all end in Kurt Cobain exclamation points, or trail off into ellipses…
And I ask myself, when did I get so cynical?
But it’s easier to sleep 5 more minutes than it is to answer that question.
So I’m lying in bed just like Brian Wilson did.
Because I like the illusion that under the sheets, the world goes away.
Under the sheets, I’m safe.
The toy in the bottom of my own private box of cereal. Just begging for somebody to find me.
Filling out tax forms with my favourite blue crayon.
Waxing poetic through a waning spirit.
And I can hear it, the foghorn leading me to shore, but I’m steering starboard to avoid it because disembarking would mean stepping on solid ground that I’m just not ready to handle.
And this fog accepts me as a ghost within it. I could land. I could let myself be found.
But I want 5 more minutes.
There are times I just wanna go home.
I hated my childhood, but I really miss the perks.
Someone used to make sure I got out of bed. I never thanked them for it.
Maybe I’ll do that when I get up.
Maybe I’ll get to work on getting my life together, despite knowing I may just fail again.
Maybe I’ll show everyone that I’ve been worth it, that I haven’t been a waste of time. That when I apply myself, I can accomplish any single fucking thing that I want.
But then, maybe I’ll just count some sheep, go back to sleep, and hope, with my head in the sand, that everything will somehow work out.
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