We live in such a danger zone,
where we ask, what do we own?
As dotted lines, replace the blood,
the way of human neighbourhood,
We’re born, but without permission,
thus, our lives, are not our vision,
as we fight; to find, who we are,
in a global thicket, full of scars,
Names are shared, views align,
but we still ask, what is mine?
Though we earn, it’s not our dream,
for that belongs to the mean machine,
So, with stony sad, sober thought,
the following list, is what I’ve brought,
hence, please let me play Captain Clear,
in logging what we have here,
We own our pain, in all we do,
we own our feelings, black and blue,
we own fatigue, that’s all around,
we own our love, ‘til underground,
we own emptiness, though we are full,
we own isolation, though push and pull,
we own our words, the chain we sell,
we own our hate, raising our hell,
the clichés we make, create our loss,
our operation, does gather moss,
why do we waste, such a short while,
by covering purity, with denial?
For we live inside, a paper house,
built by crimes, truly ours,
in a time, where we don’t like the bone,
still crying out, what do we own?