We live for: OPINIONS;
we die by the disease.
You could call me judgmental
but we're all eager to please.
We base ourselves off one another crossing our fingers,
smiling at each other warmly, calculating our worth.
And in the end, I am
In the end, I am the outward manifestation of the social cell –
we've pushed our images out so far,
that the price we pay is living in their shadows.
And – WHAT?! – do
you think of me?, how do you like my groove?
I can partake in a masquerade and mimic Western civilization too;
I can show you all the outer bearings of my skin,
but past that layer of petty opinions
who knows what we're getting in?