The rising sun
Brings no joy to my face
Life moves on
But I never started the race
Destined to fall
Fated to fail
I've seen enough now
What makes you think I'll be gold?
Born bold
But no megaphone gets free from the cold
Everything recycled
From an age of old
Not even angry
Just proves my rapport
New is just old
Stripped away for the poor
Of heart, of love, of life
Let me lay, I need sleep
Let me hope that one day
My fatigue will relieve
So that the next day
Maybe, I can stand, awake

If I am me
Then what are you?
What if we are the same
Am I you too?
Doppelganger
In the flesh
But if they are better than me
Is this my final rest?
Replaceable, traceable
I correspond
But cannot comprehend
At the end of the day
Am I just, homogenous?

Creatures of imitation
I call you now
We may be human
But we reject and disallow
Look at the trees, see the air in the leaves
Push and pull as one fulfills needs
So complex
Yet we forget the simple rules
Harmony
Ruined by the lead
Superiority
Born by the urge to creep
Power, not real
All it does
Brings us the zeal for the end

As numbers grow
Meaning becomes a focus
For every ten that are born
Twenty are met with scorn
When do concepts
Not apply to humans?
Is quantity not over quality?
To reach demands
Without reprimand
How can we matter
When numbers outweigh us
Have we, gone by
The time, to thrive?
When only 1% of the world matters
What about the 99%?

Staring
Hollow
Controlled by a box
Of science
To slay, the silence
For today is a day
Nothing else or more
Tomorrow brings chance
That no one will take
How can we live
Under false pretense
Dispensed intensity
Shattered bones
Not loud enough to tell
The secrets of a generation
How can we live?

On the road
I run forward
Shatter the glass pane
Ignore the pain
Yet all I do
Brings dents to the iron
Never, did I have the strength
But as my head will rise
I'll be born anew
As I turn around
So many crying on the ground
How can I guide them
With a voice that never bloomed?
When will the pain end?
What more can I do?

Pins, needles
Suppressed evil
Butterflies lie
Despite their pride
Pointing fingers at sides
To hide what's inside
Nerves, the motive
Paranoia, the action
Blind cannot react
To such a transaction
Pure distraction
As the branch falls
So too does its spread
But if you cut off the head
Is it truly dead?