Sheeple

If I may dare implore

Your feeble mind some more,

For your priceless attention

And inform you of a situation,

Involving the slavishness of we,

Who spend time watching T.V.;

Losing sight of ourselves,

Naively, with our brains on shelves.

The last time we spoke it was not between faces;

Rather, it was across distances, in different places.

I fear for our well-being

And true-hearted meaning --

Because who we are is something

I dare say to be slipping.

The front you see from me,

Is not the person that it seems.

Since I choose to manipulate

All the features in which I hate

So that I can feel accepted

In a population so infected

With a hate for the extraordinary

And love for the ordinary.

I suppose it is not surprising,

That we are internally dying.