Walking in, Walking out Of their wretched lives, People are crowd Who don’t stand out; They hum the same song, And shoehorn all along, Till they feel safe amongst each other, And don’t bother About anyone’s radar, Not even for a man, Who sits quietly
It was the same routine. Like a daily monotonous job. That part of life we have no control over. And we are forced to sit through it brooding through what our life has become and what would it become. But that unpleasant stream of thoughts
I am walking.I think I am;The road walks the other way.A tiny kiosk sells death in all sizesWhile people flock in huge numbers to die;They ask for their favorite cigarette flavors.A girl preens her hair trying to findWhat she doesn’t look like in a vehicle’s