You surely can't have found happiness
for you only devour the banes of contention
in tattered minds housed in your mud hovels
miseries languishing in your warped heads
as you hide and huddled in your acrid spins

Crawl out and spew your bile in rancid breaths
the professional haters of little consequences
diseased stalkers of the hatchet jobs mobs
open your lidded eyes and wake to your pains
do not inhale your festering odious garbage
you know conflicted beings need to rant and vent

Your sick bids to reign emotional and psyche traumas
to rage your psychosis and wounds on your envied
those with qualities beyond your shattered realms
embodiment of wholesome rays that sears your wicks
propping your madness's to fight for companionship
in your poisoned states and troubled demented souls
you find no rest or haven hence your Professionality in hatred