Telling myself what to do feels foreign
Telling myself what to do feels foreign And bends itself into what will turn into the first escape of many It takes a careful tread and a dissonant listening in order to achieve the uncut smile that spreads across my face So I scan wildly Wanting no one's eye but my own Desperation and wanton for a hazy comfort that's flits, floats, and spreads to the edges that become unseeable I am comfy rolling in the masses comfy to await