A dull pain in the back of my head.
Throbbing in its numbness.
Thoughts echoing off against each other.
But serving none.
For none listen.
They are too busy in their own designs.
And wicked schemes.
The rush falls as the temperature drops.
The blood goes cold in a heartbeat.
My wishes rejected without being spoken.
In vain voiced inside my head to hurt.
They don't listen; they're too afraid.
Too afraid lest they change their balanced lives.
I wish to walk new avenues.
I wish to walk dark ones.
I wish to visit the core of my home.
And unearth its dirty secrets.
I wish others to try it too.
So I know that I still remain sane.
But I do believe.
That I am not.
Almost there, in fact.