My Original Works

Hypocrite

Each word that you utter from those scarred, cracked lips never fails to make me trust you. Every fiber of my being knows that you're not meant to be heard; that every sentence you string together only makes you appear more foolish than you had before. You've dug yourself deep into a hole that no one can save you from; you've dug a hole that grows deeper by the minute and each lie you share with us only moves us closer to the end you've wished for.

Each time you give your advice to the lost and conflicted, you always seem to make them believe you're more than you are. You pray for peace, you pray for life, you pray for things to go right. You say that you hope they have a good day, that they never have to worry about money or getting a bad job, but it's all a lie. All you speak is lies.

We watch in horror as the world goes up in flames; the pale moon glowing overhead as the land is tainted red and orange; the world will never be as it once was, though I'm sure that's what you intended, right?

You've granted wished to the people who needed it the most: the girl who had no family to return to was given an adoptive one, the boy with the drug addiction was given the help he needed to cope without needing to resort to things so drastic, the kid who didn't want to live anymore because they didn't feel that they could be themselves was given a break to collect their thoughts.

You didn't help them.

The girl who wanted a family got one; she got a family that treated her like an outcast, abusing and seeing her as nothing more than a dog because, in their eyes, she was nothing but an orphan, and she should be grateful that they were kind enough to take her into their home.

The boy that did drugs was able to stop; he was able to stop long enough to realize why he had started them in the first place as the memories of his dad kicking him out resurfaced. He went to alcohol next, drinking far more than the legal limit as he hopped into his old Chevy truck. You thought that taking his drugs from him was all that would help him, but instead, they found him dead the next day, his truck at the bottom of a steep hill and crushed like a piece of paper.

The kid was given a break; the break that let them use all their time to think about why they were cast aside, why their family didn't want them around. An artist can't make it in this world. That's what they said, didn't they? People like you aren't worth it. Why come back? Why stick around? That's what you let them think, didn't you? Is that why we found them a week later, hanging from the ceiling from that warehouse?

You don't care for these people.