The Thing About Pressing

Compression starts at thirty thousand feet
You grasp for the reaching hand ahead of you
You can barely take a breath
The air is tearing from your lungs
And you can hardly hear yourself think
Over the roar of the rushing wind
Decompression starts at five thousand feet
The bubbles pouring out of your gaping mouth
The edges of the mask cut into your face
And your blood begins to boil
Be careful of your bloody nose
You can kick as hard as you can
But you can't slow your rush to the surface
Depression start at nine o clock
You read the twitter post and think its about you
You think that they are mocking again
Then blame it all on your paranoia
But no matter which way you go
You're still boxed inside your own head
And the walls are closing slowly
Press back if you think it will make the difference