Impulse

Every cut starts with an impulse
And every impulse starts with a pressure
To be like everyone else
And why you cannot find the cure

Even the strongest walls break
Under the pressure of a thousand pressing hands
Muddy, wet, and cold, handprints they make
A thousand of them, each a grain of sand

Every wheezing child
Crying in a mother’s arm
Causes her complexion, so mild
Sends us into a state of panicked alarm

Tastes of tears, so bittersweet
Can’t overwhelm your impulse
All those faces you’ll never meet
Try to feel the dying pulse

All of these things swirling around
Not making much sense to the ear
Try to scream without a sound
Just trying to conceal the fear

The fear of the unknown
Unsaid, and undone
My regrets thrown
Out on the ground like a dirty night gown

To delicate to clean
To beautiful to destroy
Intentions not meant to be mean
You realize the knife could be a fun toy

The impulse suffocates
An arm now one more scar older
Your fear elevates
Emotions put out in a fire left to smolder