Under pressure

Why do I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders?

It's light.

It's light when I clothe my soul in a different skin.

It's light when I burst into blooms of colors and scent.

Why can we only love what we see, but fail to see when we love?

A night of weary thoughts rushes in through my pores, and it's not the darkness I fear, but the fear itself.

Why do I feel the weight of time on my shoulders? Or more likely the lack of time that presses down ever so slowly, and ever so fast like the night pressing down on the setting sun.

It's light and I've been awake in my dreams.

It's time to fall back into the sleep of reality again until I convince fear to see me.