Programmed
An endless battle,
Blood, sweat, tears.
It drives each one of us,
This battle to the death.
Programmed from birth
To fight for our lives.
Our individuality, sacrificed.
To create the perfect soldiers,
Perfect copies of each other.
Those who refuse to fight
Lost, exiled, forgotten.
Cast out from the rest of us.
And yet none of us know
What we are fighting for.
When your whole life is war
What else is there?
Maybe being lost
Is when we can find
Ourselves.
Something beyond
Our own perfection
Why is it that
The lost can see,
The exiled hear,
The forgotten remember?
They are the outcasts, the losers.
So why do they understand
Better than us
What it means
To be Human,
To be something else,
Beyond a weapon.
Perfect for its task,
For war,
And useless otherwise.
Sharpened with
Empty promises,
And promising lies.
Is anything real anymore?
Not when you are
A soldier, a tool,
A system perfectly
Programmed.
