Dirt kicked up,
By the tires of your car,
Taking second glances,
At things seen daily,
Causing you to hesitate,
At times that you should think quick,
Making your decisions,
At the drop of the hat,
That fell from the head,
Of a man who lived,
A xeroxed life,
Where every motion and thought,
Seen as a copy from the creator,
Who was too scared,
To reach out,
Open up,
Be heard by the world,
Let them get inside,
Onto the mind of a subliminal killer,
Reaching into the thoughts,
Of his unsuspecting victims,
Writhing in pain,
As thought dredge up,
Resurfacing to show on your face,
As plain as the clothes,
Worn on your back,
To cover the flawless skin,
Of the man,
With the face of an angel,
Fallen to wage war,
Against the silent xeroxed copies,
Of the people we once were.