The entire world seems to take place in my head,
and when I am sad everything turns to beige.
The water in my shower doesn't match the pressure
and more than once in a while it feels like I'm going under.
The white soap isn't pure enough to cleanse my skin,
and every moment I spend standing there is another wasted.
"You have so much potential, don't let it be wasted".
I've heard this already, it lingers loudly in my head.
Even my pores are filled with the fear of failure, sunken skin
So drowned with dread its flourish and luster turn to beige.
It matches the monster who dwells deep inside me under
-neath my ambition. I am his puppet, the pressure
He places on my limbs makes me dance. Pressure,
A fluid tango of self pity. Ballet lessons wasted
On a marionette. He hides in a cloak under
My sickly skin and feeds on my unpleasant head
-space. And when I look him in the eyes they're beige.
He fits inside me now, carved a space, bore my skin.
He is a robber, a thief in the night wearing skin
That does not belong to him. Relieve the pressure,
It seems far too much to bear. A life fallen beige.
Stolen moment after moment, consuming, wasting
Precious time. A movie reel in the dreary head
Of the beholder, latched onto end credits going under.
It is no wonder how I could be falling deep under.
It is self inflicted, self sabotage, a costume skin
Weighted at the ankles by thoughts inside the head
Of a masochist. Hands of dreams adding pressure
To the chords that hold the mirage together. Wasted
Self preservation skills, the only thought left is beige.
The monster is me, and I him, together and beige
All the same. And although life may drag me under,
Those dreams of mine shall not be lost, time not wasted.
For I have fallen in love with the monster inside my skin.
He has taught me how to dance, placing pressure
On strings I forgot how to play. A symphony in my head.
Although my head may be full of beige,
My heart has seemed to swim under pressure.
And the skin I wear that holds seas of dreams will not be wasted.
