Encased in a whirlwind of inner turmoil
We claw at rotten soil
To harvest something beautiful.
Something fruitful, of use.
To escape the abuse
Of our own thoughts.
We are caught
In a catch twenty two
Desperate to pull through
And
Make sense of
The dents in our thinking
The depths that we're sinking
The vacant eyes that are blinking
As we're thrown around inside
Our own minds.