Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jim Jun 2010
No sight of comfort,
Within these walls.
I'm seeing shapes,
I'm hearing calls.
I'm burning up,
It starts to spin.
This mission we're in,
Well nobody wins.
Soem call it insane,
Some call it switching lanes.
Your feet sink,
Become faint.
Give into the thought,
you are no saint.
Its not what you wanted
its not why you're here
perceptions of reality,
rooted in fear.

— The End —