The dreams of our children are dead before they're born.
We toil away so that made men can get paid far more than we want to say.
Our lives in this place are stilted and gray.
So tell me, why is it
That every art I see
Is tainted with inhumanity?
Why do the eyes of almost everyone I meet
Whimper with resigned defeat?
How have we made a world
That thrives off our own suffering?
And how does such injustice remain supreme?
The way out is within.
It is you, it is me,
It is all of humanity,
Together,
Seizing control of our beings,
And forging a world where we are truly free.
By: Forrest Jorgensen ©
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
The dreams of our children are dead before they're born.
We toil away so that made men can get paid far more than we want to say.
Our lives in this place are stilted and gray.
So tell me, why is it
That every art I see
Is tainted with inhumanity?
Why do the eyes of almost everyone I meet
Whimper with resigned defeat?
How have we made a world
That thrives off our own suffering?
And how does such injustice remain supreme?
The way out is within.
It is you, it is me,
It is all of humanity,
Together,
Seizing control of our beings,
And forging a world where we are truly free.
By: Forrest Jorgensen ©
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