Chonny Jash - To Toe Dead Lines

A song about the pneumatic press we call a deadline, and the stress of having initial plans fail, made from start to finish in exactly one week.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
LYRICS:

Breathe. Breathe.
You made this deadline.
You can meet it as you please.
Breathe. Please.
It feels like the end times.
It’s just another week.

Breathe. Breathe.
Your heart rate is climbing.
Your body’s begun to seize.
Breathe. Please.
If the path is best walked lonely,
then why are you on your knees?

The hands of time keep moving.
Slow, cruel, fine and reproving.
Plans will die, and that’s uprooting,
but I don’t have the strength to rest just yet.
The sands of time are unending,
(Sands of time will not end.)
(Unending.)
and I’m just a man stuck pretending.
(I’m just a man.)
(So what can I do to mend this pressure?)
I do what I can, but the press is descending and
(This is sure to end me, but)
(When I know that)
I don’t have the strength to best
the ticking in my head.

It counts dread.
Each second bled undoes a loose thread
till there’s none left.
I made my bed. Now, I lie
through teeth shining bright,
soaked in peroxide.
“I’m doing fine.”
If so, then why can’t I breathe?

Breathe. Breathe.
Why are they all watching?
What is it they want to see?
Breathe. Please, just breathe.
Iambic in heart.
Penta-arrhythmic beat.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Toeing upon a deadline at a catatonic speed.
Get the hell back up on your feet.
It’s my own damn life,
I’ll bring it to ruin how I please.

The hands of time keep strangling
with grip so tight, while they’re wrangling
what they can find to keep me hanging,
but the neck of the marionette is left rent.

I need to keep up appearances.
Well I’ve appeared, have I not?
I rushed out the door to adorn the light that’s on this spot.
The cogs keep turning, but the line’s running dead.
The power’s been cut off, but it can’t not be met.
The ever-ticking deadline inside my head of
dread.

These seconds bled tighten these loose ends
right ‘round my neck.
I made my bed. Now, I lie
through teeth blinding white,
stained by peroxide.
“I’m doing fine.”
If so, then why can’t I-

The end begins as soon as this has been started.
(These seconds bled.)
The fuse is lit.
(Through teeth blinding white.)
And so, I race it in an endless sprint.

But I guess it beats the alternative...