Exhaust Trail

Just like a beat-up old car
I make my way through the crowd
with dead eyes and exhaust trail.
Bittersweet symphony blasting loud,
Imake noise but fear all comprehensible thought...
Slowly inching my way across,
but still everyone seemed to bother.
Can't I be just one face among millions
in this traffic called life?
Who sends signals to stop, wait, or go?
Is it our conscience, our upbringing,
Or a rip off from music videos?