The distant yells of a scared dog,
cars drifting distantly in the grey fog;
the sun reverts behind an orange cloud and
birds, they're singing so incredibly loud.

The echoes of the winged youth are closing in
stomach tied,
I can barely focus
The thought of someone seeing me dyes my innards blush
and I'd leave in a hefty rush.

How strange it would be to see somebody writing, outside
Gone are the things our predecessors saw as the norm.
For we must stay in our brickwork of a prison,
drive ourselves insane with our fascism and fakery.

Conform, they imply
Be individual, they preach
but follow us
be a copy of us and
how we wish we could be.