They idolize my independence by
sending me on along my way
I feel the rush of being as soon as
the reasoning's explained as to why
I feel the rush of blending into the
blur of comings and going through
peoples places, poems that are just
daily household waste instead of
Running, I lay, exist in a kitchen
already evacuated by officials,
nobody special, only the keeper
of a world no one else is living in
Hoolie
"This is the future I've life-scripted."
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