The impetus of life slows to a standstill, 
And most of the things that need saying, don’t get said,
As you watch your dreams get dumped in the landfill, 
And the whole world tells you, “It’s all in your head,”
And that’s when it starts, this creeping paralysis, 
Drawing the blinds to shut out the light,
No post mortem, no in depth analysis, 
No clear distinction between day and night, 
Just the clock on the wall, slicing the time away, 
As you sit there wondering where it all went wrong? 
And those that should, don’t give you the time of day,
‘Til finally you realise that you don’t belong, 
And there you are, sat in the waiting room, 
Quietly waiting for you don’t know what, 
And wishing your words could lift this pallid gloom, 
But knowing the foreboding clouds are your lot,
“But this isn’t right, it’s not how it ought to be,”
But the fact still remains that, “That’s how it is,”
And no, “Fore,” nor, “Hindsight,” could change how you thought of me,
And slowly it creeps on, this paralysis, 
And the hardest thing is this unspoken silence, 
That fills up the void where things should be said, 
And the clouds just loom, belying the violence, 
That silently gathers behind the storms head,
And slowly but surely this creeping paralysis,
Creeps in and drives you further apart 
And you know that it’s cruel and creeping callousness, 
Will only end when it stops your heart.