Hot Dead End

Dusts of chalks are floating in the air, We’re bit not cozy for this boredom to care. Gladly stuck in this wooden peach room, Surrounded with blooms who are obviously gloom. I’m out of my mind to say it out loud, Feels like I want to go out where I could shout loud. Sparks are flying in a hot dead end, Bounded with confusion like they all want to blend. Stately want to say that I’m sick of this routine, Too much of works are killing my intestine. I hate how this thing strikes in the mid of my day, White dusts in my hand are little bit vex to play. Maybe I got lost in this smoothless progression, Absurd malady is strongly quite revolution. I don’t know how to get along with these things in proper, Knowing that boredom is all I have to suffer.