CynicalPsychic

day by day I lay, taking little notice of who treads upon me. my fibers fill with dirt carried to me, smeared into my being. I don't mind this fact; experience has faded me.

Stress is a sickly lime yellow. It smells like burning plastic. It sounds like a fast-approaching train. It feels like unstable ground crumbling beneath me. It tastes like metal on my tongue.

Flying. Falling. Crashing. Must fly again.

Fear was evident in her eyes

Look upon deaths cold, pale eyes

Even dry eyes can show pain

The blood-lust in his eyes petrifies

Violence gleamed madly in his eyes

Violence gleamed madly in his eyes

Hope lives in her shining eyes