Blighted, smited, spited,
The world so pretty a day ago
Is a ghastly hell hole of creatures
Humans, we call them.
Dark poetry, we call such ranting.
How unfair...
poetry is only as dark as the world it comes from.
Shaded glasses have seated themselves on my nose,
Disgust wells up in me-
Some part of it, is hurt too-
that I will never accept
- Fruit of believing in human nature
: Its 'goodness' so to say.
You know its days like these
That make you see the folly of being happy
And forbids you to ever trust
In the existance of any good.