The dawn that comes for me takes everything it wants. My bliss, my peace of mind, my tranquility. As I go through the motions of the grinding to the wall, I see failure. I am Icarus, flying too close to the sun. I am Sisyphus, pushing a boulder up a hill, only to watch it roll back down. It’s a struggle. A suffering, down into my skin, my head, my soul. It refuses to let me go. Here comes the night in, it’s icy cold hands. Nothing comforts like it. Nothing keeps me locked away. Still the rose suffered to grow through the concrete. Still it thrives for sunlight, and dares to grow closer. Has all this time I’ve been seeing myself wrong?