Ode To Victims

Impressions and confessions are a dangerous deal, after a slap across the face and an ice-cold meal. Johnny was a sick little lonely sad boy, his mom pulled his hair and his dad broke his toys. Johnny would cry and kick and scream, until the night came to him with a painful, bad dream. His tears evaporated up into his brain making the light turn to dark and the membrane insane. A complimentary platter of cannonball dreams, melting the matter to vomit and the vomit to screams. Johnny did die a painful sad death and his parents showed sorrow with conveyors of meth. A dove he was in an over looking tree, in search of nutrition and a place to be. He took all the beatings and rose after each shove, but why couldn't this child experience some love? Sanity? Insanity? Brothers of battered and bitter scars, attempt to reconcile through the murky, old stars. A show has begun amongst razorblade tongues, with gasoline drinks and tunes over sung. Time is short and the show must continue, so lets tighten our belts and feast upon sinew. Snow falls and cows turn blue, now if only I was sane this dream may be true. I question my ability to think and produce, my minds in the gutter, wrapped in sanity's noose. So lets furnish our glasses up to the rim, for sanity has lost, since his brother butchered him. Victims’ run the show and savor purloined blood, while they mimic its flow with a statue of mud. They scream at the laughter that bellows from their lungs, like the roofing mans calling on a ladder lacking rungs. It's the victims’ turn for a voice and a say in it all, it's the victims’ turn for a scream, before they die from the fall. Burning down houses and stealing rich blood, it's the perps turn to fall into the depths of dense mud.