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My life is in my hands. Why would I build then tear apart all of the deeds that I've created just to be back at the start again?

One would think that life is finite, everyday could be the last, yet here I am amongst the builders tearing down once-more the past.

Could it be just that I care? That someone else was well aware that I would fight if I'm compelled to be emotionally connected.

Perhaps we've been manipulated, orchestrated over-time, and have become apart wars ensuing now only in our minds.

Driven we work to build our lives, wanting to live, we just survive.

Building to tear down what we've made, burning our past to ease our pain.

The cultures of the past that ceases are re-fabricated with disease. Security will be assured to all of those who've never learned to just ask why or walk away from the empires of today while pointing fingers, shifting blame, barely more than just complain.

So overwhelmed and unsustained while holding on to so much shame, as so much noise just pierces through...

Everything will always be same for those who see yet look away, no longer hear their inner cries as we diverge.

With every minute of every day the passive man is more enslaved, now wanting only to be heard, he spews the bullshit that he learnt.

Now every pulse becomes a dream a temporal beating lucid scream, rhythmically lifeless and unaware, completely vacant.