Looking Glass of One's Soul

Within without the hunger of our souls are crying out, struggling to break free they angrily shout. The eyes of ones soul is like fine glass, peering into the mind of one's mysterious past. Knowone knows where the mind dwells, like in the land of a dreamer knowone tells. Some ache for that spiritual need, while others are craving the need to be freed. Some souls are like swords with a sharp jagged edge, and if given the chance they'd jump off a ledge. Like digging their nails into ones face, is like spitting out anger with just one taste. Souls of another deminsion of neither here nor there, like the bitter vile they just don't care. Sometimes if one looks real close they'll see, the keeper of the souls is the one who holds the key.