Barrage of societal Pressure,

The quicksand beneath Success.

Who paves the way

To the narrow curves with thorns,

Family or Foes?

Thin air provides the deceitful mask of comfort

Nothing is real.

Life is as dead as a shadow

With a surreal ghost. Supported by a strand

We are all dark matter. We are Rusty.

Yet we hold on to hopeless Hopes

And dark dreamy dreams.
We are noth' but puppets.

Who is the puppeteer?

Who decides the end?

For now, we swing to the strings of manipulation

Until this shadow fades into the dark Light.