The bright yellow hummed as it hurt my eyes.
I wanted to hurt that hot, obese *******
but then the thought of those men,
those ancient men who spilt blood in it's honour,
kept me from shaking my fist and roaring .

Who am I to curse the sun?, who am I but a lonely loser criticizing
the world and it's problems,
just hoping for change but doing nothing about it.

We're the makers of our own destiny and problems,
we need problems , we seek problems ,
problems seem to identify the species known as man.
Without problems we'd all be a bunch of faceless,
nameless ghosts wandering the earth for eternity.
We'd never be remembered, we'd never be traumatized,
romanticized or even criticized.