They

The gate stands strong, a fortress of the mind,

Against the whispers carried on the wind.

"Don't let them in," a mantra whispered low,

Where distractions bloom and seeds of doubt all grow.

The urgent screen, a siren's tempting call,

To pull you from the path, and make you fall.

The endless scroll, a river flowing fast,

A mental current, meant to make you aghast.

And then the "They," a phantom in the air,

Whose judging eyes are ever fixed to stare.

"They're always talking," echoes in your head,

Planting anxieties where peace once spread.

But who are "They," these nameless, faceless throng?

If they hold no weight, where did their power belong?

To give such heed to voices in the mist,

A precious moment, carelessly dismissed.

Millions of thoughts, a universe untold,

Waiting to blossom, vibrant, brave, and bold.

Why trade them for the gossip's bitter sting?

For hollow praise that ultimately means nothing.

It's hard to bar the door, the cracks are small,

Where nosy whispers creep and start to crawl.

But vigilance is key, a constant, steady hand,

To guard the borders of your sacred land.

For once they're in, these shadows start to breed,

And plant their roots, a suffocating weed.

So stand your ground, and let your strong will rise,

And banish "They" from your perceptive eyes.