You, you have become the subject matter. Of talk, of art, of critique. Your recognizable image of sprinting through the streets, painting the visuals of those around with the smoke in your hands. Tears of stimulation run down their cheeks. The liquid no longer engulfed with the false realities they all have knitted into blankets to wrap their bodies with. When their own handiwork will soon be their body bags. Lay stacked five high. Where they all can finally rest together, no longer with the thoughts that once occupied.
As the parks and public malls lay wasted, scuffed and dirty. For those that existed, and still do, no longer acknowledge any significance of other’s presence. Except their’s, they, them.
Ask me where the politics end and the analyzing of your ego begins. Please I dare you, it takes the whit and guts of serial killer to look into my eyes to question my integrity. Because I can show you the colors of your own body bag.
Please catch your breath after you laugh, or just remember to inhale the toxins of your own waste after you read. Because yes I can do this too. Origins still exist but their truths have been consumed and exhaled.