So naive, to put such faith in things so inconcrete. When I know I'll never feel the same. Am I a face, a gender, a race? A number in some social game? I feel ashamed, among the last of the free, in the home of the blamed. Do we actually believe that we're more? Illusions of an open door. All I see, a common culture of hatred, lies and thievery. The blood on my hands, the stain of centuries, of senseless crimes, violent minds, ignorance of western eyes. I won't stay blind, to the atrocities of modern times. Are we the only ones who'll open our eyes? Are these our lives? So many times I've raised my eyes to the sky. I fall to my knees and I ask. Why are we stuck in this cycle of shit? And how much blood must spill before we break out of it? From the lives that expire before their time comes, none will be spared when judgment comes.