To rise above,
or sink below,
the masses squirm,
inside this hole.

A mediocre pool,
of writhing sin,
where you swallow,
to fit in.

Gulp your pride,
repress your dreams,
dance the conga,
to their screams.

The Kool-aid is sweet,
slow poison filled,
the antidote is
a strong free will.

The choice is yours,
to buck the mold,
their origami,
will you unfold?

Or shall you drink,
from their glasses,
and be one of,
the zombied masses?