Why is it that the good die young and oft forgotten
Yet the wicked go on to live in infamy forever

A million screams the wicked brings
A million star lit dreams the good had sewn
All into the minds of the youth
Truth or lies; for either side is horded
Ruthless death by the sword
Glorified by the absence of reason
Isn’t this moral treason?
Abhor the doubt and let your brain breathe in

Oh sour, angry spirits and souls
How could you be so spiteful and cold in a final hour
As to sell a life coming from whole to minimal
And to be confronted over it and simply smile
A grin, are you really so sick within?

If something such were so vile
So vile as to wretch down my neck
And breathe so slyly into my soul
And steep into my open spirit
I believe I would have to recheck;
Rekindle; and fill the hole within
The hole created by the bile of corruption
Etched in place by the wretch of the angry, sour souls

Patronized! I believe this to be;
Only existing because we haven’t set ourselves free

Yet what exactly is freedom to be?
For me I fill my hole with intangible dreams

Wisdom and knowledge I try to fill the grave depression in;
To leave no room for envy and hate, for I desire no sour, sad soul
Done so by always questioning instead of showing aggression;
Because if I were to hate and be envious, I would only bait my soul
Bait my soul, and cast it into the lake of fire, where my mind state would be no higher
Creating only problems that could never be solved while tormented by petty, lower hate