Enveloping, judgmental, preoccupied, persistent numbers,
Mixed with blueprinted anguish from which we shrink inside.
This is undoubtedly not the reality which we perceive true,
But a mangled mixture of lies, pretences, and prejudices.

There must be more to this timed torment we call life,
Than throngs of brainwashed, plastic, perfect people.
Aren�t we more than just numbers on paper?
More than what we seclude as being bad or wrong?

This entity we treat as though it were a God,
Seeks to steal the innocence from our minds,
Starting the very day in which we are born,
Persisting to mold us into its idea of excellency.