There is nothing here for us,
Oh we might think there is,
But we're so wrong.
Those halls that are supposed to create people,
Are nothing but run down corridors,
Completely empty.
Faces from the past are kept in glass cases,
But that's really all they are,
Just faces that once passed through,
And faded into the walls.
At night there must be a thousand lost voices crying out,
Echoing endlessly as their attempts continue on forever,
Never really crashing down,
But never providing the succession sought for.
It must be a lonly feeling to never reach anything,
But it also must be stiffling,
How many other people are just as confused.
Maybe it's just me,
It's possible that only I,
Consider pictures to be a form of prison.
