So here I lay
Another bed
In another room
With another man
On another night.
And nothing feels
The same because
None of the men
Are you.

Lest you find yourself amongst the bones,
Mask your face and quiet your soul.

Flock in lines of the mundane and meek,
Zip your lips, peacful keep.

This genocide of individuality is perverting our kind, incestually.
Perfect patterns, mechanically, processed, soundly.

The flawed are pushed aside,
The individuals are boxed up, shipped out, Pariahs.

So, don your masks, one and all!
Suit up, and watch your sheeple fall.

The rain is awkward today
it falls straight, in a logical matter
There is no wind to speak of
It feels like the liquid that pours from my eyes
Straight forward
Pained by the standards of others
They do not accept my kind
There is no intersection of understanding
No wind...
It seems to pour as I begin to think
and only stops when I find resolve