I can't keep running away!
Even if it means I suffocate,
I'll turn and face the cloud of smoke I've made.
I have patience, and I have courage,
But both amounts are wearing thin.
I know deep down, I deserve this.
But why must fear be what molds good men?
I think I'm at my wit's end.
I know one thing for sure...
I made these ghosts that are haunting me
Breaking this sense of security!
How can I face all that I have done?
I guess I better lift these feet and run!
Though I know I can't escape.
I'll always be outsmarted
By the ghosts that I create.
Creatures I've come to hate.
I can't trust my feet.
I admit defeat.
This must be it.
I'm At The End Of My Wit!

INVIA LE CORREZIONI