It's just me expressing my feelings, please tell me what you think.

You walk out onto the street. You're mad. But what are you mad at? Is it your family, your friends, or the whole world? You don't know. It's cold and you start to feel the air pour into your unzipped coat. You pass a homeless guy, he's been asking for change for a year, on the same corner, at the same time, every day. Or maybe, you just pass by that same spot every time, …

…lights. The pitch black gloom. You see the light. But, are you dead. The pain tells you "Not yet." You hear the news. You are alive, but she is not. Why do we fight? Why do we rot, and decompose the way we feel, and we suppose that when you say what you contain you end up dead, it is not true, it's just a fad? A gust of wind again, and you are dead.