I wish my point of view didn’t exist. Don’t want to be human, don’t want to sweat the small stuff, but when I do, I know an inner-explosion is about to occur.
That being fed up thing. I used to point fingers forward, I trace all fingers back to me.
I listened to the heartbeat of a dead body who watched as justice was never served. The passivity, the man who wouldn’t speak up.
He wouldn’t raise his voice for what was right. That would mean he would have to define what was right.
Man, the brave, the strong, he averted his eyes instead.
Look into the smiles of the children.
How they scream.
Lord of the flies, a world depicted for kids with no parents. Now, the parents are the kids.
Welcome them to the lands,
Generations lost to the selfish binge.
My point of view,
Just exactly what I see,
I witness the dying children,
Plastered smiles on their faces.