Acidic. Is this air we breath,
Through pollution painted lungs
Heed the prophecies I sneeze
Into the sleeves of the underpaid, or rather the over worked
Either title would sway the scale just a tad bit closer to the truth

Please forgive me dear roof,
For not bowing down at your mere existence
On grinding knee caps, stolen last week
By the reaper(man) who decided to take everything

Just for the hell of it,
Oh know they.re heaven sent

And you know it, so blacken your eyes and show it

Bones made of steel in this 21.st century act,
Only joy comes from the minds we hack,
With machetes crafted of carefully folded paper
Our blood runs black. Like water colored ink spots.

Tell me what do you see?

When you glance out a window, or rather the computer screen
Digitally sculpted worlds,
We can customize everything! 

[With preset options] but it.ll be a blast

Til it all comes crashing down. down.
With a single click for a sound
One wrong move, one ill thought out decision
The shards of the perfect life,
Twinkle. Dying embers of a dying time.
Til there.s nothing projecting the [mocking] red eyes of time.

Left to rot in this scum pool,
Germination beneath the wrathful sun.
One second too soon,

I.ll execute the last one.

The last letter of the last word, last language on Earth
Ticking time bombs wasting away,
Buried alive in evolution.s shelf worth.

     Out of the seemingly levitating debris a hazy silhouette effortlessly climbs atop a fire mangled sedan. It stands with a presence of authority, inhumane blue eyes scanning the epicenter. A shadow at the end of the time warped tunnel. It shifts, almost knowingly- mockingly- and blocks out the remaining afterglow. 'You're not going to die today.' Its whole being appears to shout, above the screaming and the moaning of quaking buildings. It fills, its onlookers with a sense of relief, for this is their savior. All except for one, peering out from beneath the undercarriage of a tipped grey hound bus.

     This one, almost casualty of a spontaneous nuclear blast, spectator inhales a final breath. Heavy with the weight of burning fuel, flesh and radiation, he stumbles over wreckage and death. Running nearly blind, save for the peripheral of his right eye, into the great unknown. Into the aftermath. 

~Unfinished, unedited, hardly thought out~ Just killing time in Math.

 
     Stand up, the chairs are broken. Stand up, your god has spoken.

Get up. Get out. Buy in. Sell out. 

Rebellion is the new black. On the silver spoon they're choking. 

Smooth looks and cliche books, always searching for a fight. The voices crescendo to a low rumble.
Majority the minority in this modern tragedy; The Right. 

       Rusted contraptions; impersonal expectations. 

The rusted flecks spiral down like rain upon the vermin below. Oh, How they'll never know.
         What the clouds taste like. How the raven takes flight. 
They'll never feel the caress of the sun, the chill of the moon. The hell laced burn of mid afternoon. 

Diluted, I drink the cocktail, the petrol of my heart. Tinged with anti-freeze it burns so fine, a slight reminder this corpse is still alive.

Yet the ink has dulled, my expiration date is nearer. It's grown faint with one thousand miles of wear. Though the reaper doesn't seem to fear. There's a conspiracy stowing away in here. 

Call the police! Alert the authorities! There's an intruder hiding out in me. Euthanize the monster for the greater sake of society. Interrogate the witnesses, my heart bludgeoned/beaten police brutality. 

Laid down atop the shallow grave, my soul weeps it could not be saved. From the starving flames of an angelic doomsday. The bodies burn as the grass blades mourn. The virus blossoms, the war starts today!   

 I feel it coming, it's turning deep within my bones. It's rattling the land, burning down homes.

I see it in my neighbors face, on the off chance they're outside. I see it on the front page, of the 'New York Times'.
I see its symptoms an impending plague. A new world wave of passive aggressive rage. 

I hear it in their chants of turmoil, I taste it in our wastelands' soil. An after bite of evaportated oil. The final cry of a day old-

I sense it coming with each picket sign, each passing second fleeing Time.

          It howls in the wind, it hides in a smile. The demise of humanity, though not for a while.
So sit down, watch your back and attempt to relax.
Biding your time for the first string to----- snap.

   Hypocrisy; Its poisonous breath whispers throughout the halls. Infecting all those who unwillingly flock to its decrepit prison. It stirs up malicious thoughts, replacing wonder with weariness. A vindictive mastermind. A ghost.

     Habitat; It's a slimy leech swirling in the fountain of knowledge. It's a parasitic worm nestling itself deep within the youths' brains.

          Prevention;There's no magic cure all pill to repel it, no pesticide to exterminate it. There's no way to hide from its wispy clutches.

The generation is calling out to you, shall you return its anguished cry! Do you have the strength, the power to rise up and retain your creativity? Your integrity? Can you withstand the daily propaganda being force feed to those present? Can you be the rebel......while keeping others' respect? Can you be the one willing to protect the words on the page, for future years, future rage. Maintain this renegade craze.  

                               Don't bare arms, don't bail out. Don't scream or shout. Pick up a pencil, and erase them the hell out!