Few Cold Days

Tick Tock Tick Tock,
Going by the clock,
my mind is blocked,
by the ice created,
by monotone routine,

Music has become my drug,
Skin becomes the only spoiler,
but even that is numbing . . . ,
I hate this phase of life,
the only thing making me feel alive,
all rest I have become numbers,
or rather numbed in hollowness,
and even that hollowness is not complete,
it is as if someone has sucked away,
the heart out of me,
that I can't even feel pain,
leaving me like a living zombie,

Why the hell did I wen't in first place,
went in rat race, sometimes I feel,

Everything looks like,
a plain, floating stream of unending painful
unending flow of information,
I want my life back,
where I can grieve,
I can laugh heart out,
dance out,
but I know such unoppertunate moments keep comming
now and then . . .
a bitter truth . . .