The sensation of creation leads to revelation of revolting refuge,
rhetoric of retaliating reverse recklessness, little did we know it wasn't us to blame.

So the constant reminder of fame smacks the face of each race, as if there is nothing they can't do wrong.
when their on their toes, and their crimes on the nose, of each and every single song.
The continuous calamity of this adversity revels in the rebels of diversity.
And we keep trying, and the victims keep crying, because there's nothing they can do about it.

The moment in which we decide in ourselves to limit the blame and fame and end our self-made hell, an endless ringing bell,
a constant constant constant reminder that we. hate ourselves.

to the best of our ability we try to limit our reality as if closing our eyes, wont keep it 20/20.
And we keep ignoring it. And we keep ignoring and ignoring until one day in the light of morning we hear the mourning,
and the pigs keep snoring.

Because it's not their problem.
Its ours.

So we tire endlessly for hours, rinse repeat, blood draining the showers, as we try to fight the powers that shackle us.
And hold us. To limit ourselves that we can't be better than the old us. That we're better off here.
To disappear as if part of a background, a silent sound, a ghost hound, there is nothing left for me.

To do.

Because how can you try to fight the power, when the power you fight is in you.
You ignore the things going on, and yet you feel they are wrong.
So why don't you do something about it.

it's because you don't want to be the person who does something about it.
but instead see the person who does something about it.

and you continue every day wishing you had the strength to take on the masses, of endless, hate.
and let the course run of fate, and debate the state of each state, at this point can't collaborate to slate this... this hate.

they think we all need to be locked away, but don't they see, that's what we've always been.

Contained.