A sense of motivation lost in translation,
carrying a burden of someone else's past.
Render the results until a mangled
piece of newsprint juts out the other end.
Disguised as good news,
it trembles with words of imperfections
that lead groups into political rooftops,
shouting irrelevant material to people
whose purpose relates to truth and not bended words.
A screech for help protrudes,
so it's muffled and fed with stimulants & downers,
which leads the individual back in line
with fellow sleepwalkers.
A slip-up catches an eye,
then questioning comes into play.
But this is not playing at all:
it's a dig at the heart,
so far that we actually question who we really are.
Thinking we're doomed to a tortured life
filled with numbness & disappearing words.
Secret crowds form in warm, loving places
to awaken the sleeping.