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.