What do we look like from your end?
When you part the clouds,
Can you see beyond our skin?
Or are we nothing more than what we see?
Straight streets and empty crowds,
With little room for moving.
Are we like the straight streets,
That never end?
Can we turn back,
Or can we bend?
Or do we just break?
What do we sound like to your ears?
When we raise our voice,
Can you hear all of our fears?
Or are we nothing more than what they say?
Straight streets and static noise,
Calling us all to obey.
Are we nothing more
That these straight streets?
Do we control ourselves,
Or simply move our feet?