Scared and unsure,
in search of solid ground;
my foundation falls apart
without making a sound.

I don’t know what I’m gonna do
or if I’m gonna make it,
I say things will get better some day,
but I can hardly take it.

So sick, so tired,
not all grown up quite yet
a lump grows in my throat
as I struggle to draw breath.

People cite poise,
but it’s a mere façade
to hide my shay hands so well,
perhaps even from god.

In four(ish) years I’ll work things out,
or if I can at least,
‘til then I just try to hold on,
stay a step ahead of The Beast.