An AdaptationMature

Life is an easel claims whoever, I've got a few choice words for them.
I'd oblige almost completely, if it weren't for the fact that nobody's there.
It's the people, how imposter that they're against me; Always against me.
You don't know it yet but you hate my presence don't you and doesn't everybody else?
Doesn't everybody else, and isn't anyone pretending not to have too long?
I'm taking a minute this moment in hindrance, in hindsight a while;
Obstructed by limits that men put in place and it's wrong.
Main controller gain perspective and dimension,
Save to mention the sting you'll endure, the absolute misery-
Chords, you play them well; so do we all.
Bleak immediately, I reject being connected to this crawling mass of organs that-
Why was I assigned again, and how did I get this animate anyway?
There's an adaptation to occupy this hideous evident skin and I won't have it at all;
Under go subjective coaxial growth of the core, your sizing's machinable.
Cold shifting gears plotting mechanism sprung and I've an idea that I'm not the only one-
Who notices breach in the structure upheld.
What sets you apart from a crowd of like clones?
Deep shoulder wary, become insular with me; without a base in reality you'll find peace.
I've been here before, I communicate with the one whose presence isn't existent to fellow man-
Me not included I guess; which problems do we address while we can, or let's not?
Who are you trying to impress, can't you see nobody's left?
Why can't you see nobody's left?

The End

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