Humans are insane

Deep deep deep down,

burrowed in the hearts and souls,

wormed and hooked, thread-by-thread in the unconscious,

there lies all our monsters and distortions,

all our hopes and dreams,

all our wants and wishes,

all our guilt and regret.

Reflected through our eyes,

where sleeping beasts lie,

we visualize the world,

through all the cracks in masks,

through all the shattered glass,

through every puncture and hole,

through every gaping void in our existence.

Everything in this world is of our own creation,

our secret desires,

our unfulfilled translucent horrors,

our fears,

our nightmares,

but most of all,

us;

what we are in our inhumane human expression. 

For every good deed done,

we do so much more harm.

For every lucky day,

we suffer a million more of misfortune.

For every bump in our long road of life,

there are mountains and pitfalls.

Yet, rocks clutter and wood floats down rivers,

birds fly and sing,

bees build and order,

worms burrow into the earth;

everything thrives and decay.

Everything moves on.

We, on the other hand,

do nothing more than complain,

whine,

thrash,

and burn pieces of ourselves to ashes.

We're more complex than anything else can ever hope to be,

but from there our internal wars bleed,

and our outside protests throw hurdles of emotions into each being.

Of all the destroyers of earth,

we are the berserk.