Why is it that blind hate still always manages to hit a target? Why is it that I feel the sting while others seem to have a metal suit on? I don’t want to feel sometimes Sometimes I want them to Sometimes I want to scream because it’s the only way I can hear myself over their massacre of painful propaganda They tell me I’m asking for it For living? For feeling? For being different? For having my own mind? For what? I’ve asked, I have But I never get an answer Sometimes they wear me down to the point where I start to think they might be right But then I see the wounds that they have inflicted on me and others, unprovoked, unnecessarily cruel And I think of what they say, who they’re telling me I must emulate and worship because it’s the only way So I do I turn the other cheek and block them out So I guess I’m better at what they want me to be because I won’t be what they want