They Poem by Ernest Cook

I see them all walk by, yet these halls I walk are empty.
They're concerned with who they are, but everybody here is nobody.
How they look is so important, even when they are all blind.
And in groups they still are searching, although there is nothing to find.
In mirrors they see an image, this image is not them.
They converse with one another, however they are not friends.
Obsessed with a subliminal purpose, they bite the hands that feed.
Imprisoned inside vanity, most will never how to be free.
Supressing the pain of aboriginality, tongues numb with the taste of conformity,
Never forgetting to alter their appearance, they forgot about personality.
Living to impress the others, they impress me with the ability to clone.
Insulting any rebellion with words, they've been raised to be mindless drones.
Striving to fit in with their group, they waste money on expensive clothes.
Freedom of expression is murdered, it's cool to wear the store everyone goes.
Perfection cannot be reached, seems that nobody ever told them.
Maybe one day it will hit them, when they've lost every single 'friend'.