People smile, they cry.
They run to compete,
In the race of becoming the best,
A race that would never complete.
Even by killing,
Or sacrificing others zest.
Why can't we be happy with what we have got,
Always taking chances & live in fear of getting caught.
Getting caught saving the money that was never ours,
Even if it was, then you can't take all up the floors.
Floors of death will set you apart,
From the wealth you have managed to get,
And gathered so far.
So y not do something,
That might not be so revolutionary,
A little more than stuff,
That's stationery.
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