You can find hidden truths in simple lines,
Even in broken grammar or in faulty rhymes.
One just needs to tap into his soul,
That, among others, is the writer's goal.
Yet for some the ink on paper looks plain,
They belong to a world for the terminally sane.
Believing only what's in front of their eyes,
Imagination and dreams to them are merely lies.
Lucky are those who can see the fault in the system,
Lucky are those who can absorb flawed criticism.
But within the borders of this fragmented society,
Things aren't really what they always seem to be.