You say you don't want to live

But you run that much faster.

You say you don't want to go

But you break down at stop signs.

Success is not the goal

You comfort with kind eyes

Yet when it comes to yourself

How is it you only see

Above ninety-nine?

You run until you forget how to breathe

Because you really believe

That if you can breathe

Then you're doing it wrong.

And if you're doing it wrong, then everything will be wrong.

Even in the deepest part of you

Everything will be wrong.

You run and pretend

You're doing this for anything

That's more than a numbing pill.

A moment in between being and not being

That silences the ghosts that creep

And the doubts that sleep

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Under your skin and breathe.

A moment of not being here

That fogs the eyes unclear

And lets the body just be

Without the always pressure of being.

Because sometimes you don't want to see.

All the sights slumbering in your lids

You just want to delete.

Forget the now and then

And exist in something that's merely here.

Sometimes you want to disappear

Not behind death doors not that kind of leave

No

Not that kind of leave.

But the kind where you let go of every piece

Let it float and join the clouds and be

Out of shape and out of ideals

Disappear out of that thing

You call me.

Success is not the goal.

You say in sharp pants

Like you didn't cross the whole word for a resemblance of a you can.

Success is not a guarantee

You repeat in your screams

Like you can sleep at night without a grade saying you're still here.

How much is you

And how much is a simple primitive hunger for a win?

How much of you is alive

Under all those wins?

You lay up at night

Awake with all the voices that cry

What you did wasn't enough

What you carried didn't measure up.

Moving onto your side you grasp

The threads of your hair and hold onto them

Afraid

Always always so afraid.

With a desperation that calls the tears upfront

Because they seem like all the threads and ends

You always lose between your thumbs.

You lie awake at night

Coiling fingers into ashy hair

Reflecting the forever ache

Of never being enough.