While the presses run, people continue to be real,
if in a day I change my focus,
the shell I’ve composed will remain on the surface.
While the presses run, the value of love does remain,
if in a moment she sheds a real tear,
nothing in the world will satisfy her impressive fear.
While the presses run, society has a certain makeup,
a sort of balanced hypocrisy to live by,
we all become responsible parties to questions why.
While the presses run, ignorance will wreak its havoc
upon those soul who cherish closed doors,
the rest of society might continue to personalize wars.
While the presses run, can we possibly give ideals time,
rather we sequester our minds with shallow
immediacy that disallows any true dialogue to grow.
I stepped outside in the morning sun, a glorious day,
to find the paper box on my corner, turned on its side.