Yet Untitled

This poem is a mental note to myself about something that happened a few weeks ago. I was attacked at night by two unknown guys and woke up in a hospital bed a day later. The guys jumped me for no reason; they took no money, no belongings only my hat. It was simply sport to them. If you read this and are offended by the content, I apologize; we all have our outlets and means to keep us calm. ------------------- Darren Pity the pathetic, pretentious Lout. Uncouthed by the hands and flesh that clothed him, Failed by the cold sweat and semen sacrificed To breathe life into such a low, Coward. How far does the Cretin's small mind expand? Surely he cannot see the same colours The sunset always casts upon my eyes? How could he know any pleasure at all Whilst still being cold, calculated, closed? He cannot smell life from a woman's flesh, Put soft, spring flowers in her silken hair, Or feel the fires of Summer in her eyes. He cannot appreciate the green grass, For its shade is brighter than his future. Pity the pathetic, pretentious Lout, Greedy, careless in pursuit of prestige. Respect comes to those who give respect, Happiness to those who spread happiness, Pain thrice-fold to those who spread it at all. Pity the pathetic, pretentious Lout, Who's knowledge sees no more than virgin red. Red, your favourite jeans, a dark ruby; Darkening with every stomp of your face, Soaking the wet, blood-red, hatred seeping, From the foot of a man unknown to love. Pity the pathetic, pretentious Lout, Who's only mark on this beautiful world, Is surely written on his mother's face; Disappointment, anger, revolt; disgust.