The Most Wonderful Time

The bogs of the west force me to face my own reflection.
I have no choice but to give in,
Yet my bloodline insists on cutting my oxygen supply.
Now I'm in the tight grip of time,
Battling with what's left of a dying spirit, 
And burdened with immovable perspectives.
Perspectives that fail to see a broken mind.
 
The reality of a situation lacks the assurance that they so desperately cling to.
A shared construction of genes demands me to obey. 
It's true that they granted me life but I raised myself.
I was not made to exist,
I was made to live,
And be relieved of life's idiocies that thrive off of my misery.
My greatest guides have shaped me this way,
And they'll live eternal in my memory.
 
But as long as I'm chained to irrational tradition,
I shall only amount to nothing.