Mounted to galleons, we’re carved to the mast.
Implored and exploited we look at the past.
What was, will forever be.
Claims that we cry over the skies of a boiling sea.
Fashioned from mistakes repeated each day.
So little is filled with our personal say.
Slay the expectations freely.
Disaasociate with what the universe wants ideally.
Made wicked by the permanent shift in demand.
Feels like our universe is balanced on a strand.
One false move we’re going down.
No wonder we’re living with masks to hide the frown.
Mashed into cookie cutter uniform outline shape.
On the outside we look like things meant to bake.
Why do we call this OK?
Hope is quickly fading under the light of stupidity.
Bolted into our mainframe of pure madness.
Still we wonder why there is such sadness.
Fixated on a useless point.
Its as if we wish to break along a weak joint.
Having drive doesn’t always lead to a prize.
Yes that is quite the confusing surprise.
But it is so true.
Instead it can lead us to being…
Mounted to galleons, we’re carved to the mast.
Implored and exploited we look at the past.
What was, will forever be.
Claims that we cry over the skies of a boiling sea.
Simon A Jackson - Writer 