No satisfaction in what I wrote.
Chilled bones before I spoke.
Sweat was cold until I woke.
Ever get the feeling things just aren't right?
Out of sight but it seems to be in mind.
You won't find another like my kind.
Is what I'm feeling just another sign?
Closing in, resisting to unwind.
Nothing feels like enough.
Guess that means I'm never done.
A lump of guilt in my lungs.
Where every thought just runs.