Jeez

I quantify the insurmountable disasters,
that are released by endorphins,
in the alleyways filled with acquaintances.
Making declarations that hold on,
like my hand and another's dancing,
do not make me.
Saying "this is the past and future",
I can't understand how they process my outrage,
towards those behind and those in front.
So I take to the cobbles,
writing messages in fogged up windows,
but I realize I've actually written secrets.
Paint the city with more emotion,
subverting escape-attempts,
I will tight-rope RUN out of this place.