Scrabbled_scribbles_

Back on the dirty brown couch, Where all was soft and sound, I am still sitting there, calm as clouds. In the solitude of quiet crowds, A cool breeze brushing my warm leg, Still there on that rotten bed. People flew it by, Ignoring those loud cries, Of the wise eyes. Fretful like the red on the walls, Still ponder in broken halls, Falling troop, Fallen hope, Drifting away in a fleeting home. I am still there in my fleeting home. Everyone has now moved on. No path is in sight, yet I walk with numerous thoughts in my mind. Blind folded those eyes of hawks. Life is overwhelming again, so I am writing again. Maybe I am overthinking again?  What is overthinking? What is this fleeting feeling that makes my house so dazy and drowned? Overthinking is running circles in a hamster wheel you were never meant to run, an endless and reletless spun. Try to stop? You’d stumble and fall; keep going? You stay lost. I am drowning in thought, what will they say? Why did I say that? Why did they say t...