These people.
The ones standing around complaning of which song they heard first.
These people.
Who never would think that they would make it out of this miserable place.
These people.
My people.

I don't associate myself with them, for I have dreams of my own, but these people.
Most have nothing to live for.
They have dreams as well,
but don't have any intention of living for them,
of striving for them.

My people often make me sick.