The Average

Here is a picklock to open my sores
here is a dagger to tear out my pages
once you've tasted the unforgivable sin
of fitting other souls to your greed
your own one is forsaken
born for cold-blooded expose
with the lethal mark of vanity
you live of the malice and anger
harvesting sorrow and anguish
despite the lovers you viciously killed
despite the homes you left devastated
despite the void growing inside you
you won't feel the freedom of justice
I need a right to believe
to have ability to pray for our ways never crossing
I will run, I will play dead
but I will keep my hands clean from your contagious sadness
dance, dance on the ruins of charity
spit into faces of the poor
seven rivers of far distant lands
wash away this raging putridity
If you can't make them open their eyes
set their muddy hearts on fire
humble science of feeling compassion will stay guarded day and night.