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


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    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.