Trudging through the wreck of self rebellion

A cloud drifts freely through the air

You feel the wind through your hair and the grass on your feet.

A carefree life that can't be beat

A life where all goes well and not a single doubt runs your mind down with fog

It seems so close to touch however we're all held back

An organ that makes us lovable but also a monster that takes us by our hands and shoves us to our knees

A will at which we sometimes can't escape

A will we wish we could break

But sometimes you just want to speak

To let that organ know why its perspective isn't all so bleak.

But sometimes you can't

Sometimes you feel locked in and sunk to mud

A sludge pulls your feet down and metaphoric bullets smash your skull.

You pour with metaphoric blood and you trek through the metaphoric sludge.

You scream and cry through that metaphoric rain

You punch and kick through the metaphoric pain

But... Sometimes it isn't metaphoric