The world’s moving so fast, how these eyes can’t even catch a glimpse. The hands feel broken, but I wish I could somehow hold them in. I whisper and ask for a clarity amidst the spinning wheels, but those cold winds mocked, the moment I stopped being still. Something adheres the surface of my consciousness. Realizations of a far off dream that appeared to come close. That I keep failing to justify the purpose of me existing, To the little demons that keep feeding on my heart and soul. So when I find myself a dirt in this polished world, holding no strength in this survival of the fittest. I choose to seek sympathy in disguise of people’s acceptance, and I keep chanting for them, ‘This world is the prettiest!’ If pretty defines swiping the dirt off these grounds, I’ve got to play a solid stone so these winds won’t spit me out. But I know this heart I carry shall tear me apart in pieces, The moment some heartless words try to encircle me around. And in fear ...