Some days I succeed,
this is how life is made,
other times I am in need,
finding myself in the midst of a tirade.
Tears forming behind my eyes,
can't help but feel sorry,
sorry for anyone who puts up with I
as my vision soon becomes blurry.
Can't help but feel useless,
demons telling me in capitals.
Always end up in confusion,
I end up fucking it up in collaterals.
Struggle and doubt is part of the plan,
can't grow crops without going through the storm.
But there is way too much on demand
that it is easier to shut the door and disarm.
No sleep, the pressure of success
that is what keeps me awake.
Insomnia taking places
where it should not partake.
Deadline keeps me alive,
dead on the inside,
burning with desire
with the need to provide.
But that's my pride,
a clutch to hold on.
A strategy to survive
in the world of the grown.
