Once again, another home run. Bewildered.

Everyday would seem perfectly crafted. Perfectly rehearsed.
Hypocrites, it's compulsory for them to be present in your lame life..
Mainly, their role's to make your life a lot more harder than it is.
Stabbing you vigorously every single time you look back.
Wow. And the aftermath? The scene should be Bloody as hell.

Working in an office is a gratitude. A nest for unexpected two-faced homo sapiens.
Thanks to them, they make you grow stronger.. They wake you up from that dream, where everyone seemed to be an angel. Like they have Halo's on the top of their heads that they couldn't even hurt a fly. Fuck that thought. Everyday is war to me. Here, i this boxed like place. Too lame to be a home. Too under rated to be an office. But somehow, in a very weird sense of comfort, you find this place rather homey and strangely you come back to it every time. Why?
Because you have nowhere to turn you.

You're an outcast.
The ultimate Outcast of Outcasts-es Foundation around the globe. If there is one.
Maybe, maybe not.
Who know's?

You're the neon light on that dark room.
Shouting for attention. Waving like a mad dog in heat, trying to ask for help.
In need of an aid.
Because you're young and you're chasing your dreams.
Trying to run away from reality, but it's catching up on you.
Taking hold of you. Splashing your once colorful dreams with acid.
And now, look at you.
All ruined and dusty.
Where have all your spare parts gone?
Disintegrated into thin air, along with time.

So tell me, do I sing in a melancholic tune?
Or am I just anxious and inadequate.
I hate to complain, but this is how i feel.