My mind is a slave to the florescent cage
No howling wind, no beating sun, no history beneath my feet
No hope
No heart
Just an ornamented torture chamber
Salvaging my body, but ravishing my spirit
Lured inside this cavern of deceit
Billboard harass my vision
Promise me a perfect body
Guarantee me a perfect soul
Plastic figurines showcasing perceived perfection
However, those mannequins are not the dolls
We are the dolls in the dollhouse
Controlled, manipulated, abused
We are unwittingly slaves to an imperceptible cycle.
What am I doing here?
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