what are you,
a husk of what the world demands,
their expectations and beliefs,
but not all is them

Some are your expectation,
but where are they coming from,
what wastelands are these lunatic ideas from,
spawning an undue end.

Psyche of yours,
moulded through hammers of plenty,
in the fire of false pretenses,
is any of you even real

Do you see the small hints,
your true self, the loathful one,
how long will you sustain such ignorance,
false faces on dead ideas

granting their wish to bring down,
with the grace and might of a maggot,
soul of yours will forever question
where do they start and when you end