O, the pains of maturity
And the imminent insecurity
In each gasp of cold air
In each strand of white hair
One less beat my heart will make
One less day I'll ever wake.
The body becomes a ticking clock
The organs wait for the relieving shock
And so the work whistle blows,
And your body lets go.
This is the time
When dreams and reality collide
And after the gray matter and dust subside
The product is truth
The absence of innocence
The slow decay of youth
And self-image tries its best
To crawl out of the carnage.
Well I've met my match:
Mundane mediocrity
A statistic in society...
I'm aspiring to be average.
I'm striving to be standard.
I am but a flaw in the system,
This is existentialism.
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