It's Finished Poem by Jon ProskeyVigil

We go here, we run to there;
never really seeing, having not a care.
We run and never walk just to breath the air;
or feel the wind blowing through our hair.
We eat, we sleep, we do as we please;
not truly existing as intended, our souls pleas.
Drowned out by our lives if that is what they are;
our destinies are caged trapped behind bars.
Our life consists of working and making money;
paying our bills and living a lie that's not funny.
It's a sad set of social rules, society must be followed;
you can't really live life without interferances goad.
Demanding it is obeyed but cries independence;
throwing up walls of conformity says makes sense.