• theoneinaminion 5w

    I have no idea.

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    In the mornings they run in the gardens,
    Warming up for the race against time.
    They are the prisoners of their dreams,
    Running away from them was their only crime.
    As the sun sets on their regular grind,
    They flock to numb their tired thoughts.
    They drink the drink of loneliness with company,
    And hope it kills their self-wrought drought.
    The night is nigh and the sky is asleep,
    They squander to their homes barely alive.
    There's no energy to even dare to dream,
    About how to change their mundane lives.