In motion to an imaginary finish line,

The game that is life wants to defeat me.

I live to die it seems.

Seen myself in the mirror from afar,

The reflection told me to off myself,

Then it turned its back and walked away,

Leaving me alone to suffer with this anxiety.

The anxiety of dying young

and fulfilling this thing they call potential.

Society days don’t waste it,

I call it a subconscious urge to be great.

I think we all have it,

Some pursue it, other don’t,

Wish we all could or wanted to,

But I guess it doesn’t always pay these made-up bills.

Confused by this convoluted place where

people’s only urge is to survive by any means I guess.

A biological urge to eat and fuck.

Also to create as well.

Survival of the richest.

If you fall down and don’t roll you’ll be trampled on,

Still trying to get up from the tramples of yesterday.

No golden ropes to pull me up.

Only strings from the ones I love.

Sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough,

And it may pop eventually,

But as I build my own strings,

eventually it’ll be a rope,

which may not be made of gold,

But should be enough to pull me and a few up.