my contemplation at its peak
the people all around me
sitting in silence
yet speaking what they call words
they transfer their ideas
their brains trying as they may
correcting the language
of all the friends they make
who are you people
can you even answer my question
what if i take your precious words
would you then use discretion?
there is something in the woodwork here
something different has come
some new existence
one we are not from
but WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?
and where the hell did you come from?
from moment to moment
all disappearing and then some
the only thing holding us together
is the longing to be accepted
the need to be loved
the intrigue of where we're headed
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