Funk.

Not the smell, nor the taste.
Feel that silent rage that doesn't boil?
Frustration on a backburner with no place to go.

Biting back tears, fearing you're own anger -
Circling a fanciful dream with no hope.
Feeling a hole in your chest that tightens for nothing

Judged against standards I'll never want
Feeling the pressure for things I don't need
Wanting the things I cannot ask for.

The only way out is my own mind -
the same trap that keeps me here.