Into a heart of forsaken debt we are birthed, so says the friends of heaven; and not without pain do we fight for more. With the relentless demands of social stature and unforgiving acceptance, seldom do we achieve anything more than mediocrity.
Ridiculed for vision, our dreams whither into uncertainty. Starved for attention they beckon for more but fall far short of found. Led by insanity we reek of rotting souls in search of normality, that form of torture for which we ache to know; a curse, tradition is so. Yet with respect for such we hold high. Hope will be forgotten once we mature into those required by whom seek conformity. Dreams will be just that, a subconscious request to nurture imagination to reality and flicker will the feeling of thirst as it’s quenched with governmental aid and reactive medicines. Trust will become lost with its foe as we know no more or less than what we’re told.
A Mentality Disabled 