My fingers touch upon genocide,
they slide down the crack of society's
ass; I whisper in your ears the
deceitful propaganda that keeps
your eyes wide awake during
the hours the world collapses onto
pillow cases; twisting your thoughts
into agreement with mass production
over quality of living; I speak to you
words of terrorism, although i am
to blame you still seem so taken
with the idea of self destruction.
Your ideals are nothing more
than my preferences, that drifts
past rationality, and into abstract
acceptance of evil punch lines...
The joke? is on you.
Celebrities and beauty queens
are my way of driving your
insecurities to the surface, i love
it when you gaze in the mirror
and see everything but perfection.
I lash out at the youth, in order to
almost make them demonic
figures, speaking of granny's
hang bags being stolen by
groups of blood thirty teens...
merely so when the sweet old
lady walks down the street?
her eyes, are firmly fixated
behind her. Looking for my
suggestions; Hollow as my
existence may seem to the
naked eye, your morning cup
of coffee would not feel the
same without a dose of
my input; the ink that blends
truth with a feast of fear
exhilarates your empty
mind, without question you
never challenge my
authority over your existence...
I am not merely an opinion,
i am, your Sunday news paper.
So, stay with me as you read me...
and, stay scared people.
