In the hole of the common, fear runs deep,
where the voice of the many stirs us from sleep.
Dress the same, speak without spark,
act like the crowd, it's mediocrity's mark.

Alienated souls, proud in their space,
yet some feel the pull and yearn to escape.
Clarity’s a pain, like islands alone,
different in values, they stand out, unknown.

Children are innocent, while the old face disdain,
in life’s dance, they’re often the bane.
Crushed in their youth, molded to “right,”
they grow into shadows, lost in the night.

Searching, they toil, just drifting along,
in old age, some find where they belong.
Regret flares up when death’s drawing near,
a clarity that hits, yet it’s often too clear.

What is a madman? A question that stings,
self-destructive choices, the sorrow it brings.
Definitions collide in an endless ballet,
a party, a reason that fades away.

Mad, eccentric, a rebel adrift,
in the crowd or the fringe, a heart’s heavy gift.
Faking is key, the path to acceptance,
but those who can’t mask live with the tension.

So here in this hole, with pockets laid bare,
the weight of existence hangs heavy in air.
Multiple holes lie in every street’s fold,
seeking out meaning in stories untold.