I'm not on top of the clouds.
I'm in the clouds.
I thought that this fog would be good.
But it just clutters my brain,
And sends headaches my way,
I hope I might walk out soon.
My headlights just reflect,
Thousands of ways,
Several paths,
My own mind might take.
If I pick wrong,
Will I be better off than before?
Considering nothing is worse than the wind.
And being buried beneath,
Thickets of ice,
In this snowglobe of decisions.
If I break the glass,
Will it just make a mess,
For me to clean up,
Yet again.
Maybe this clutter,
Can be mathematically solved,
A quadratic formula gone wrong.
One answer negative,
One answer positive.
Both are decepetive and foes.
Let's simplify it out,
Condense the dense,
This fog might finally.
Start to make some sense.
Finally.
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Title Change. :'D
Why describe it? Just click the stupid button.
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