I sat inside the grove where the leaves never fell and sat in the circles of my rhymes, the words that always tell. I am not at it's center and far be it from the truth how I grow bitter of the outsider's eye, so conclusive how pointless the grass grows with me, it's easy to believe a truthful lie.

Are we better or are we simply more aware? Knowledge only becomes more common and acceptable as long as the sociable can give it a wear. Our eyes are dry and our hunger is deep, but don't let me ruin the fantasy that you wish to keep. I am bitter because you have excuses, all the excuses in the world to to never quite do, and instead you contend with shadows as if they somehow define you.

We beg for reminders and tokens of our credit or value that is such, and build mirrors on multiple realms to fabricate what will never be much. Our minds and hands are screaming for innovation but involvement demands the followers to follow through, so the differences that are produced aside it are worthless to you.

I'm weeping on the edge of the grove because you don't understand. I'm not your leader, no one is... all you had to do was use your own hand. Yet here we are because you need everything to make so much sense in that world you hide. It's empty here and filled like anywhere else if you bothered and pried.

Doc is out on the lake again and the boy with the light in his head whispers water to fill. You don't understand and that is what proves this world damned still.