Feelings On Paper

Vermin

The world is so full of mud & dirt & filth, you just want to clean it to the ground, tumble it all down to ash.

Rid of it's virus.

You drop a bomb full of disease & vermin onto the already corrupted, thinking it will sicken them to death, forgetting they thrive on toxicity, & it will only make mud into cement, the dirt into gun powder, & the filth into unneeded riches.

The evil rises, it breathes the toxins & exhales parasites, birthing more chaos as the little cleansed cells left—the little of the masses—suffocate within the death meant for its oppressors.

They swim through the debris, drowning, struggling, until they too, turn into bacteria, who later will evolve to become the very viruses they grew filthy hatred for.