Digging.

Digging for a way out. 

Fear and regret turns to dirt, and it's all over my hands. 

Wait, is that light? Off in the distance?

Oh, no, it's just another insecurity.

I've been digging in this hole for quite some time,

trying to find my way out,

but every time I seem to get close to an exit,

my world flips and I'm tossed back down to the bottom again.

Pressure looks like rocks,

and responsibility looks like grass. It's all falling

down on me.

One day, I'll step foot out of this hole,

and I'll never have to look back,

as the muck and grime on my hands

would serve as a reminder

of who I was before.