| |
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.
Copyright ©
Josi Spiccelli
|