Seeping into this mattress the only consistency I know now, the only object I recognize is my stoic unchanging frown.

Running away always seems the viable choice, but the lonely mind is succumbed to having no voice.

The choice is directly in front of me and my hand, yet it looks so hideously bland, I don't understand.

When will my soul become a part of this confusing land?

So easily forgotten, do we remember the bright days of playing in the sand?

When dreams were always ingrained in the inevitable plan?

We all seem to forget the small thought of no matter what I can.