Friday, October 2, 2015

Perpetrators of Tragedies

Oh, what do you achieve 
Oh great crusaders of misery and carnage
It is in this way that you either see nothing
Or the same walls and bars for the rest of your life
Notoriety is nothing
Even the evil organizations of criminal activity have had higher standards than you
You stand for nothing, make no statements
I would call you all illogical
But most of you are smart
In this drive of hatred and delight in causing suffering and pain
What is it you hope to achieve
An inner satisfaction to see what its like?
Is the experiment worth the risk
You only have a few sorry supporters
Only a few little boys who follow you around
Is it because of being pushed to far
Well sorry to tell you your still being pushed
By giving in to this sickness you let them win
Did romance never flock your way?
Well it'll never be so now
If you want to cause this pain and you want to end your own
There are plenty of evil men out there
Men with equally devious plans as your own
Or combat zones where the targets shoot back
Have your cake and be dead too
I guess I don't need to understand
I'm not you, you are not me
But you are not in a phase
You are not misunderstood
You are sick
Sick with morbid curiosity
Sick with the belief that you are important somehow
For what purpose
For what rhyme
Except to exercise your own sick urges
Its appalling, but that's what you want isn't it.
You want us all to acknowledge you
You want your picture posted on the papers,
To appear on all the newscasts
To become a legend of notoriety
Its probably our fault for letting this happen
Letting our media shine spotlights to understand your fucking sickness
There is no understanding it
There is no deeper meaning
Unless a tumor is eating your brain, 
Or pushing on places it shouldn't,
And you can't control the voices,
You never had to do this,
You never have to do this,
Its bullshit and you know it.
In the end you are a thief, 
A robber,
You had a high count of victims,
There is no bonus round
There is no parade,
In your own private places you will suffer alone,
And if the devil is there you'll suffer the worst,
If not,
Then what was the point,
Your mothers should have aborted you.

Wednesday, September 30, 2015

The Bastard's Feast

When they started their journey they had not wanted for anything
For years everything they had needed had been available
When they want arrived they simply called and they were waited on
hand and foot
But now as the summer season drew to a close there was nothing but to want
As provisions failed to meet demand
A supply line dried up like the desert after a momentary rain
So that they were not only thirsty but starving
And as they prayed to the stars for something to be done
It was ultimately their choice to start eating eachother
When once their clothes were neat and clean
They were now wrinkled, tattered and blood spattered
And only one man came out on top
He would stand their watching what was not edible
Fade into rot, as he carried it forth with the luggage
This sole survivor, oppresor, predator
Alive and smiling though he'd just devoured his kin
For the hearts of the basic man set him no room aside for feeling
His survival is the only excuse he needed to cause strife
To kill and torment those he swore to protect
For this man is a coward,
Hacking away at the defenseless
Knowing full well they were so
For he never showed them what to do
When love turned on the loved
When they came the hated
They were never taut to strike back at the hand that fed them
Not even when those hands fed him

Tuesday, September 29, 2015


If by chance the rain does not fall
Then by chance your flowers will not grow
but if by chance the rain doth fall
Then by chance your flowers will still not grow
Meager people manage impossible missions
but beyond the hour they do not know if they will last
Maybe tomorrow many times over they will fail
And beyond their hours they will not know if they can last
Drifting by in dream ways
Floating on the thoughts of the sleep
Taking a way out that no one saw coming
Its the side exit back to their life
If by chance the snow comes too soon
Then by chance you should just give up the roses.

Sunday, September 27, 2015

On the Other Side

She played in the flower garden
Where once she was forbid
But now observing eyes were averted
She pranced through pathways
And danced among the feverish lilies
That she did not care about the thorns
She felt the pains as she trampled the roses
Already scratches that emitted red
But she was too carefree to ponder then
What a few cuts could mean
She emerged eventually to the open grass
Feeling just fine and carefree
But the scratches told another story
Yet her eyes remained on the trees