Pressure keeps on building inside his heart and head
No voices or urges, just a rising sense of action
This pattern of living has been vindictive
The second-nature torture,
and repetitive daily motions done by rote
Such a dependable excuse to revere solitude he’ll never know

The periodic visits with the faces of his friends
They all paint the same distant picture of pity
All their faces blend together
So still, he is alone.
With the affections of his books, his blankets, and his music
All with which he escapes for a time
Holidays, all his own

All these sources of despair from an internal sense
They feed this elemental rage that is building inside him

Rage both blinds and exposes him
to things he’s always feared
Things he’s known and avoided and forgotten
Perhaps even forgiven time and again
Memories and feelings that resurface like a disease

At times like those he’s struck by the fact
That in some ways he’s been outcast from whom he’d known himself to be
Mirrors reflect a different person each time he looks into them
Times like those are the places he always fears to know

But when the reveries and reminiscences end
The present is still here, still waiting to begin anew
The second-nature tortures, the daily rotation patterns
Ground him where he stands, yet still they keep a window open
To where he wants to be again

In spite of all he’s known and still experiences
Of all the blended faces, and of the elemental rage that burns inside him
They all fail to extinguish his will to dream