Papier-mache people with heartbeats,
Are polluting each and every street,
Aimlessly shooting verbal bullets from,
Their proverbial yet powerless guns,
With the innocent in their cross hairs,
To correct those puzzled, blank stares,
Over the happiness, money, and beauty,
That the shallow are supposed to see.
Gasping for breath not even their own,
Just for the chance to steal, although,
The supply is endless, as is the desire,
To take the last thing, to fuel the fire,
Deep inside of their flammable souls,
Without remorse, without self-control,
And without regret, beg for the things,
They need to control the smoldering,
So it doesn’t damage, it doesn’t kill,
Such a pitiful drive, such a sad will,
To continue another illogical mission,
From a far less compromising position,
Stationed somewhere around the core,
Of the innocent they shot down before.
They are the most feared people alive,
Killing the weak with their stone eyes,
Without ever muttering a single thing,
With one disappointed fast glancing.
The innocent are actually guilty ones,
Giving the powerless these weapons,
To destroy them one insult at a time,
Without self-defense for the crime,
Of belittlement by wasted humanity,
Poisoned by their own fucking vanity.