Pollution

This is my spiritual trash bag, Inside it I keep the cadavers of scruples. My head is fertile for knowledge, though spores may never mature. These are my transgressions. They hide me from myself. My hands are for destroying everything I cannot face. Spite is such a sublime solution. It feeds the ego and the soul. I'm placidly letting the power subside; easier if the pain never shows. The argument is always the same. It’s a question of what we'll allow. What sort of horrors can we deal with, and to which ones cannot be exposed. Testing the boundaries of civility, We can only discover ourselves. Such wonderful wicked and terrible things we are capable of providing. So join in my dumping of knowledge, We're better off not knowing why.