Too many thoughts.

I think this is just sort of an artist poem.

I'm sitting in a white room in a black chair and i'm spinning out of control. Even though i'm spinning so fastly that I couldn't see anything even if I tried. Pictures somehow began to appear of my past. Of everything i'd done that I couldn't take back. Of every great and bad memory. Of everything Id said that I meant ; Of everything I said that I couldn't replace. After watching the story of my life unfold I get up from my chair unable to walk I fall to the ground. I crawl, but no matter how much I try to crawl to my destination. The road i'm trying to reach is ever-lasting. In this white room i'm left with nothing to do, but sit there and think. I'm sick and discusted by how much the merry-go-round chair of my life has turned my stomach. Suddenly a pen drops from out of nowhere and I pick it up thinking of what I should do. Should I write on the white walls to give this room some sort of meaning? I began to write about my life, poems and lyrics. Anything that came to mind was written down. So now what was once a white wall became an art.