Karma In The Long Run.


After a

while the

perpetual smile

becomes bent

into a facade.

A sad way to


simply cope,

against any

cruel points

hurled with

angst against

dart board skin.

Eyes no longer

bleed tears,

hearts are

shed of

all hope,

and shoulders

hunch like

Quasimodo on

an arthritic day.

Around us

souls tremble

under finger-

painted smiles,

scuttling mouse-like

past confrontations.

Conditioned by

past suffering

they avoid

standing up to

the bullies

who inhabit


all trips through life.

How sad that we 

have verbal

punching bags

to vent  our

insecurities on,

the obese,

the homely,

anyone disfigured,

racially different people,

the gay,

the insecure

and the weak.

Hell must  truly

be a house

of mirrors,


where those

who abused

endlessly reflect on

their hideous flaws.

the the demons

point out eternally

with sharp pointed




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