Pressed.

Reaching for the pedal , let me tell you the news.

Finding the way in life, is just for the good few.

Sometimes you just gotta’ hope, that your world will elope,

Perfectly with your life, so you can cope,

With the troublesome life, you’re sure to live,

I’ve known this, even as a kid!

With this knowledge in hand, you can gather a plan.

But really anymore, I’d rather just stand,

My ground, against this space I’m forced to fill.

Isn’t it funny that your only real thing in life,

Isn’t even made with your own will?

People talk about the good, about the bad, and the sad.

But clearly none of this matters, and it makes me sorta’ mad.

If our most basic need, life- isn’t even ours to find.

Obviously we aren’t meant to have things work out for us,

We weren’t made to rhyme,

With the words of our soul, something’s misplaced somewhere.

And half of us , don’t even seem to care?

Come on! Speak up, there has to be someone out there!

There are words in my brain, trying to get out,

It can be a pain, but I don’t doubt.

That it’s worth the cause, the effort, the stress-

I refuse to believe, that our lives are pressed,

Like a stamp to paper,

Like the oceans into the earth.