The Collectors
In our minds we think its all good...
well its not
wake up people you are disgusting, hideous monsters
As I look out my window
I see them walking down dirty concrete.
waves of thick dust following close behind,
the rain comes down on their heads
as I just sit back and wonder�
wonder how they do it,
how they exist,
how they repulse me.
A sickness falls over me,
guiding me to a far away place,
one I cannot imagine being real.
Its bliss,
the creatures so pure
not like those with the disease of our world.
the greed, all the material bullshit.
they are collectors
collectors of filth
collectors of rancid, dirty human waste.
where are the collectors of death?
mass suicide in a glass bottle,
kept locked down by a simple cork.
As I reach for its beauty death smiles
its proud, shining with happiness
it caresses me,
holds me tight
and I feel a great weight lifted from my conscious
it's fond of fear,
but I do not fear it and it respects that
As I let go of this suicide
I feel as though I am falling
a thousand feet.....
then with a loud pulse
I crash into my own mind
looking out that window,
shaking my head
wondering when I can stay...
inside that bottle of death
so they again wonder the streets
collecting the rotten human waste,
feeding my anger and laughing in my face.
