Deformation.

Deformation. Ever time we ridicule them Just for how they look, We fade a soul. And then We hand them the key To permanent discrepancy. They perform their show for us And then we ridicule, Pay the price it took To make them the fool. And as they publicise Their pain, It turns our twisted minds, Into - What we see as Perfection. Although we are As deserving of their name - Deformation. And who’s to say we’re All so different? For surely they must know, As they carry out their Promise to society, Or as we say - the show. They secretly ridicule us. For they can see that we Have minds which are not free, that We too are deformed - In A way which we don’t see, A sickness of the mind - Deformed mentally. And so beneath the ingrained fear, they See through our disguise. For there will always be The day when we will realise That we are the deformation, and So in our spite We marked them the malformation, To escape its clutches, tight. Yet through their despair, They already know the truth. They are the better people, with the innocence of youth. Perhaps its part of the pact, Perhaps their hearts aren’t torn. As who’s to say we’re different? For our perfection, too, is torn.