by Andrea Jones
Symbolism can be fun.
See, the blood run in the water,
Hear, the screams of your fellow man,
Taste, your last breath, when you're
Locked up, inside, you want to hide,
But your cage is public, they can see,
Into your soul, and judge you, without speaking.
Not a word to you, even if they do,
Don't look you in the eyes, they feel nothing
The sheep, they follow their, so called,
celebrities, they look up and follow the
'ideals' of their culture.
This culture sickens me, eleven year olds having,
babies, babies having babies, mocked if no sexual
interactions when they are sixteen.
But us, the writers, most of us are thinking for
Ourselves, with intelligence, not like these sheep,
These, brainwashed minds.
We try to cling to intelligence, but this life,
It's simply to see how long before we go,
Before we turn into sheep.
Save us, they cry.
No, for we did this to ourselves,
The few of us who are pure,
Are not enough.
No, why should we?