Running around the empty space of my head, Looking down I find a new perspective on indifference and realizing that it's all just in my head

In my head you'll find a muddled, and very jumbled mess of cob-webs and empty novels, running again towards the only source of light, but the light grows more dim, and distant
Was it not meant for me?

feelings of contemplative spiders running up my arm like pin-pricks and needles.

Non-sensical and very whimsical you run towards me holding your eyes, blinded by the glow of psychosis and wishing it had never happened to begin with. How to end such a powerful thought of those self-proclaimed geniuses is all towards the back and towards the front we have main-stream thoughts of eye-brow raising pentacles (or maybe just tentacles...)

How to discern the lyrical mistypings of those we call stars only to watch them fall. They never attempt to get up again because their light has burned Out.