Coffin Trash

Instigating violence instead of defusing a situation. Shoot me in the face and get a month's paid vacation. Celebrating death down there at the station. The ones you've killed will watch you as you sleep. Mouth breathers and cop callers. Black and white, no grey area. Toxic rainbows in tech-n-color sever childhood skies. It's obvious. Terrified, they kept their heads down. Maybe it'll all go away as long as they work their jobs, follow routine, and a few times a week they pray. Damn your eyes for knowing the truth and sitting Idly by, as you've foreseen the outcome in visions and secretly knew the reasons why. That the smoke and mirrors clear and shatter. Hearing the true tone in between the clatter. Watching the news in all hues of blood splatter. But still you've got the audacity to say you've an idea of what's the matter? They'll come for us all in the end. If Cancer doesn't kill you then some other marketing tools step in. Religions neuter progress. Faith a hollow promise. Your shepherd had the forked tongue all along. Trained, conditioned, and corrupted to the bone. Eyes still fixed on your betraying cell phone. Tracked and tagged, docile and fed. No more questions echoing in your atrophying head. You've been duped onto the killing floor. Muscle breaks down just a little bit more. Consume. Comply. Stop resisting. They've plastic boxes for us all. Holes pre-dug in which we fall. Love, a vestigial emotion growing ever weary. The wisest trees, will shake their roots clean. We don't talk about the bodies and where there're buried. A self fulfilling prophecy that has come to fruition. Rich frat boys, I've an aching suspicion. The human ant farm upon a corporation's shelf. Swallow jagged lies from the rotting prophet's mouth. The Godly are screaming as profits are headed south. "Please invite someone to church today". Knocking on heaven's door with a bloody clinched fist is the goddamn polar opposite of Christ's teachings, lest there's something I've missed. They've plastic boxes for us all. Holes pre-dug in which we fall. The weakened flock shall devour themselves. Just a human art farm upon corporation shelves.