I don't know

What is this planet, this ground we all tread?
That we stumble around on ‘til one day we’re dead
Who shapes the future, do they write the past?
Progress isn’t progress if it happens too fast.

Mindless like zombies making do with some wealth
Doing as expected, filed in lines on a shelf-
-Like tins of soup or value beans
No need to think, though we do have the means-

-The means to be different and not to conform
Not like false adverts who “break from the norm”
Contrived virus wannabes, they make me feel sick
Infected by falsehoods and the backsides they lick.

No man is an island, we can’t do it alone
Yet we need to be separate or end up like clones
To think for ourselves and cut our own track
Yet it’s hard to do so if no one has our back.

Sometimes solitude is the only escape
From the something that binds us, as our worlds often blinds us
Sometimes isolation allows us to create
And sometimes it drives us mad, but madness is just a singular train of thought deemed unacceptable when it is seen as unconstructive in relation to the world we are expected to dwell in.

This world is madness; this world is bullshit, not always, but often…. As long as the world only exists inside one’s own head however (and it always will do) then it is up to us as individuals to shape the planet.

Hopefully we’ll end up with something that passes for civilisation…