The drums beat hard,
a constant banging.
Getting louder
and Louder
and LOUDER
until eventually,
they can't be ignored.
Until everyone knows their songs.
The songs that say
beauty is in perfection.
That money is happiness.
And that cruelty is the only way
to protect yourself.
But the drums,
they play off beat.
They do not sing in truth,
But in lies, to shape,
And mold
And fold
us all into perfect
plastic mannequins.
But you can make your own beat.
And play LOUDER
Than all of society's drums.