what is this life, this mincemeater of souls, wherever we flee, the thunder rolls, leaving us parched, hungry and alone, effortlessly turning hearts to stone, chasing humanity away, incarcerated every other day, wearing these skins of shame, for if you don’t play the game, you’ll have to be tame, squeaking your grievances in utter vain, without recourse to slivers of hope, they’ll clamp your mind in a vice grip, just so you don’t cope … but … but if you can hold your own, keeping the flames of consciences burning, it’ll be their backs that’ll be a-turnin’, calling you a loser, a dropout, a vagabond soul, telling you that you’ll never be whole, ah but you know better than that for sure, for what haven’t you had to endure, so stay standing, head upright, and that just might, just probably might, get you through the desolate night … … …

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