What are skies made of?

I have no room In my heart for hate

To sit around and debate the fate of a mate when I know, the strings that have been pulled and almost pushed me past a feathers edge,

the ledge of persecution is balancing on the precipice of ignorance, a junction that functions by closing your eyes and pretending we’re not all human, silencing empathy with satirical chicken little’s,

thinking things that impinge on truth but only ring the thoughts of you when you’re laying sweetly at night thinking,

will the sky fall and if I see it, will they meme me too ?

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