1– Most people try to avoid eye contact at all costs.
2– Most people either do not say "thank you" or mumble it as if it doesn't mean anything.
3– Most people act out of either self-interest or custom.
4– In most people, the maternal instinct is dead or at least deadened.
5– Most people don’t know how to control their child without using impact to the head or behind.
6– Children outnumber adults, and 20+ year-old children exist.
7– Most people will look for a scapegoat in even a mildly adverse situation, even if one doesn’t exist.
8– Most people have no sense of respect and are therefore not deserving of respect.
9– Most people do not recognize the humanity of others. (See Nos. 1-5, 8)
10– Most people have lost their humanity, also known as their soul.

We depend on opinions from empty minds and change for people who need to change themselves. We take advantage of frail hearts and cut wrists to get to the top of a made up food chain. We rip innocent leaves from trees and pour death into bodies of water. We purposely bring pain to those we love and expect to then be forgiven. We intoxicate ourselves and trust we can get home safely when we realize we've just stripped away the life of a mother and her little girl. We obsess over people who will never appreciate us because we believe that's what we deserve. We feed off of the sadness of others because it gains the happiness in ourselves. We are selfish, we are murderers, we are human.

You died,
took your life,
couldn't handle,
all the strife.
You are not weak,
but it seems,
you hit a peak.
You left your family,
you left your friends,
leaving them,
to what ends?
Now they lay,
alone at home,
while you lay,
in your tomb.
What did you think,
when you drank that bottle,
did you know you would sink,
sinking at full throttle.
What did you think,
when you tied that noose,
what did you deduce,
by causing that abuse?
And now that you are gone,
you do not see what you have caused,
you were not strong,
to at least have paused.
Think of more than yourself,
you are not just another, on a shelf.
But now you are no longer here,
and it is slowly becoming more clear,
you wiped yourself out, with growing fear.
Think of your life,
think of the strife,
think of,
your future wife.
Because once you are gone,
so are they,
you will not be the one,
who has to pay.

Why does this world seem so dark,
with ****** and suicide at every channel,
with a **** in some unknown country up on a panel.
And yet we continue to live our lives,
filled with thoughts of insults on people we barely know,
stabbing one another with thoughts shaped like knives.
And then when we are hit with a catastrophic moment,
where someone is dead who was close to our hearts,
and only then is when our empathy starts.
I had a friend die today who I hadn't spoken of in years,
yet I do not find myself in tears,
he was a man who had lived his life,
but took it away when filled with strife.
Yet I cannot bring myself to believe,
that people will put up faces to deceive.
Our selfish desires make us look past them,
forgetting that we could be where the problems stem.
And how can there be such selfish desires,
to ******, steal and start fires.
We desire money and pride,
while looking past societies suicide.
So maybe if we look into ourselves,
and realize we are just one of many on the shelves,
to care and protect should be our main goal,
not to just live and collect our toll.

The sick passion we have
Instead of practicing, we envy
We look at the arrogant one
Who brings us down
We scoff at his righteousness
We would love to call him out
Not to teach him his mistakes
But only to bring him down
His perfection: too blind in envy are we
To see his arrogance is that of his weakness
There could be fellowship in both of you
Yet instead we remain, stirring the tensioned brew

The truth is...
I hate my poetry,
it weighs on me like a seven ton anvil.
Laughing and shouting out,
about my faults and doubts,
which stand tall before me.
But I am to vain,
to remove them from sight,
as I want everyone to see the rain.
The drought that is within,
can only be cured,
by the peeling of my old dead skin.
So to write it all out,
is to scrape it all off,
until it is as tall as a skyscraper.
As I keep writing the poems,
the building will sway,
until it will finally give away.
I will be crushed beneath the dust,
and no one will question the rust.
For they could see,
it tilt and fall,
until it crushed me,
under my self-righteous gall.