People

There are people,

Who can see the trouble,

Empathise with the pain,

Burst their bubbles,

And burn down the drain -

To rid the world of heroine,

Or get high in the clatter of coins.

There are those,

Who see the best in all,

Smile upon the demented soul -

To stand tall, fall and crawl,

And lift curses old;

Living with heartless ghouls,

Lusty, hateful and cruel.

And then there are those,

Who understand without words,

And read the depths of your mind,

Against the innocent idiots in herds,

Who live and let live to waste your time,

Gallantly striving together,

Birds of bloody feathers.

And so are those,

Who can express,

Through palms, fingers and fists;

Amongst inappropriately dressed,

The proprietors of cowardice.

The silence lovers,

Who hide in painted covers.

And so are those,

Who are alive and dead,

Neither understand nor show the will.

Fitting miserably in frets,

Neither made nor designed for still,

And they know not,

The purpose of a rhyme.

There are some,

Who stand against the tide,

With bare feet but swollen spirits,

Standing for nothing but what is right,

Against prodigies of ill merits -

Weaving through earth's crust,

Too blinded by greed and lust.

And all in all,

There are those who should've lived,

But are dead.

And those who should've died,

But live in luxury.

And I lie and wonder if they're all real,

Or a figment of my deteriorating mind.