One day among all never seems to differentiate, only a clone of the passing daylight burnt.

As society crawls from the sewers daily, and foams among the waste of the common.

And as all the suits, preps, jocks, and other stereotypical filth ride on their lives.

As the different, the unique, the originals cling to the underbelly of society, and survive.

The murder, crime, and hate desensitizes all who are blind, and numbs the mind.

The propaganda, tabloids, and stories of pure violence and senseless actions kill the soul.

Exposure at the youthful ages corrupts the mind, and brutality of no source conjures.

As the names, the callings, then torment piles this crowd only sits behind a mask.

The plastic face, the hurt laughs, the fake smiles, only hid the hateful pain for some while.

As the tension of this hurtful rope rises, they break into the unthinkable actions.

The suicidal thoughts, the emotion withering, and senses languish to the ones, the crowd.

As the pollution, the harm, the torment we inflict upon earth we asphyxiate ourselves.

And yet we inform one another about this, but never act upon it, and attempt to halt it.

And the allocation of the brutality continues, yet like our worlds harm, it is not acted on.

The talk, the ranting, the mentioning of this epidemic is the only step to the path of truth.

Yet at the mention of truth I ponder upon its meaning, and so done many alike, the crowd.

Truth is defined as “A fact, true events, etc” yet the “truth” is a illusion to the preachers.

The “truth” causes reactions of blindness by many and ecstasy by the twisted, and warped.

Reports of this only feed this ill feed demon lurking among our lives, scavenging many.

Names of many slanders are tossed as artillery and damage our self confidence, and hope.

Tongues learned of many whereabouts taunt the minds and burrow into it for eternity.

As this vocal one way warfare occurs the many are lashed as if by a whip of some kind.

As society grabs this whips, with a firm hand, and a strong arm, only time lays around.

The raising is the propaganda, the lies, the hate created by stuffy men behind desks.

The peaking, the strong arousal of all the minds, and sick thoughts, the occur to the weak.

As this whip goes down the pressure builds, the hate swelters, and kills you on the inside.

And finally it crack upon the crowd, when all snap by the abuse of others, on this crowd.

And this crowd only waits yet for this cycle to repeat

And repeat, over and over on this crowd

This hurt crowd.

This pained crowd

The alone crowd

The whipping crowd…