Even if I can, those blazing balls
never stops roaming on hearts
and minds, like a cascading sheet.
It tries to paint patterns of lived lives.
And it vexed the object, supposed subject.

But we are both object and subjects
at the same time, only our point of
view is really real sometimes, for in
our minds we know the world and with
our heads we judge and ascribe categories.

Even still, many are passive, unaware of all
that passes the eyes. Many chose to be blind,
that way the many in society will let them be,
but being active is war, you must never look,
or stare like a bloody goat, move along prick .

Everyone gets an impression, everyone thinks;
they try to understand or learn a thing or two,
some rightly, most wrongly, and many never
know, between yes or no, between whence or
hence, being blind is sublime, seeing is war.

But I chose to see, even though you don’t like.
I’d rather see than not see at all, and they say
its rude to stare, but what else can I do but
look, what are the eyes for if we look only
forward and never at the objects passing.

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