I am a pimple on the face of the world,
A festering pustule
Simply trying to heal.

When the world reaches up
With its ***** hands to
Break me, for its own vanity,
It merely opens me up
So it can pour in more if its
Filth.

Over, and over,
The world will try and fail
To empty me
Of the filth it feeds me.

And maybe,
One day,
I may finally heal.
But when I do,
Because of the meddling,
I will be left as a scar,
A symbol to the world,
That it should have either left me alone
Or washed its hands.