Misshapen

The lights grow hectic,
this town grows tighter;
Nor big 
nor small;
it is its shape,
a sickening circle,
I could never fit in.
I want to run
nor away
nor back
just run
and not bump onto some curve

But there is nothing out there
other than,
just an abundance
of,
curves


of other
sickening

sickening circles.