Someone scratched up the bonnet of my car.
How bizarre,
that someone would get pleasure from that?
They took a blade and scratched right into the paint,
slashing across, and across,
like that made them boss, I can only think.
Such little joy, one would presume.
Such little hope for humanity, for such delight,
as I day dreamed about that same blade,
slashing their throat.
I wasn’t even ashamed, of the pleasure that thought gave.
Such is life.
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