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Young Livers
of misery and toil
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At its core insincere,
Comes close but not to touch.
An obligation to deform.
And we were warned and in our own reaction,
Tied now to this push.
Martyrs to no cause.
Our direction not to follow.
Itâs some sensory misperception.
As it feeds in the shallows.
Heavy of our tongue lay these words onto you, and itâs obvious:
Itâs nothing but sound.
We push and we pull,
And if we donât get away or we just canât get enough,
Weâll burn this all to the ground.