Maybe it's like being a jar made of glass,
Flowing through the air without a purpose,
Tumbling towards the frightful fate,
Barring away oh so close,
Maybe it's like being a grey cloud among the white,
Shifting slowly rather than blistering fast,
Fighting the dense air with force,
Hoping the sun could take what didn't last,
Maybe it's like a homeless man thinking back on life,
Living in that cardboard box in the rain,
Begging day after day for food,
Always having clothes with molded in stains,
Maybe it's like a car breaking down,
Watching as life rolled by without a thought,
The burdens mounding up ever so quickly,
But you keep fighting for what you've once fought,
Maybe life wasn't all that it was cracked up to be,
Being low and bleak upon repair,
Or maybe life gives us what we can handle,
And who we cannot live without so we won't be so bare.
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