Rugged up between the sleeping and the dead,
The cold place where I make my home and my bed.
There’s no friction, so I’m sliding through my life,
Waiting for the world to give into strife.
I can’t catch or hold of the life that I want,
It slips through my fingers down into the fog.
My best is not enough, though that should be okay,
But I struggle to thrive every single day.
I hide away hope hidden deep within my soul,
I appear hopeless but I’m just keeping my expectations down low.
I don’t know how much longer I can keep hoping and stifling fears
My stitching is busted so my dreams leak out with salty tears
I’ll be fine, I’ve been through worse, I reassure myself
So why does it feel like I’m still trapped hell?