I'm living through a passenger window watching the streets roll by. I'm living from a borrowed suitcase the clothes on my back aren't mine. We're all dying in fist full at a time, I'm reciting these tired lines they're all lies. Like winter to the fallen leaves my thoughts leave me with twisted sheets, ones that tell of my fears of uncertainties of me who I am and what I'll be if I'll move on or just be a change in scenery. And what part of my skin is shed and left behind this season and what will take its place? Can I fight this change or is there no point? Is this what I'm destined to be? Maybe I won't know but for now my eyes are on my reflection times not on my side I'll wait and see.