With no sense of guilt, it's built
filled with feels, supported with fluid
Days after days it grows until it rots
Cuts it'd felt, but not for those in the hurts
Whole lot of Buts amongst the lots
Shut and bolted on searching for vaults of faults
Blind and binded in the hearts
It's not that complex as if it's maths
Rates, hate, race and running the race starts during the age of eight
Full and thrown away while some never ate
Inside...