Is my writing any good?

Grey clouds covered the sky now and in the distance you see it so far yet so near right in front of your face: that was the abyss. It lead travelers to wander aimlessly through the endless breach of their sanity that would break their rational logic in half to replace it with discourse and chaos. "Son!? Are you there?" Cracked voice sobbing half heartily. "I've been waiting for hours, where have you gone. They'll be here soon." A questioning defiant croak. "Son." Different for the Father because he hasn't seen him in many days too many months and years that pasted like ages, like millenniums. A pump that's giddy and then grits its teeth to the harsh reality, clogged like a funnel stopped as a arrow would when it pierced a far off heart. Mangling the face grasping branches that have no feeling or life; every things dead and I can't take it anymore, I wanna go home said his subconscious again and again wracking his brain in a sweating exhale inhale frivolity that wouldn't ever happen if he had listened to his gut. Sticks on a pole wooden and bouncy cringed at his hands snapping the dry hot twigs separated from the crumbling brown leaves. What's the difference? He thought alone in dismay. I was dead inside already, war will always be the one to bring the end to the world, not in my yours his sons day but today maybe tomorrow, any day of this year for the rest of our natural lives on and till the day we're dead and gone. I will be waiting for the end. He thought as he remembered the terror the propaganda the tarnish that tore at the government, his family, and friends. I will be waiting till I'm starved or shot dead and my ears are ringing.