Melancholy premonitions. fictitious suspicions.

I'm somewhere caught in the strings of their puppetry. We didn't know it then but up rose the speakings from the crack fiends and speed kings breaking the thin lines that held us together. And i can still feel the rhythm less sobs that broke wildly from our chest and the tears that dried; tight and itchy on our faces. This is what separates us from the thems. Speakings dissected deciphered made to believe that life is a gift and deaths a given. Reiterating teachings you were taught as child becoming a clone in this never ending cycle.
Divide us and supply us with sins and casualties make life a living hell and then promise us peace?
Do you thinks Their really listening?
Do you thinks Their really listening?
Do you thinks Their really listening?
A paradox of lies and lust, this is not a game to us.
Every door we're going in seems to lead to a different end.
To them we're insignificant.
But life is not a game to us.