We lust in secret for violence, mask our truths, enraged just by how pathetic our society has truly become.
From the idiots who praise superhero movies for their depth to the jacked-up truck jerk-offs all flying Old Glory, whose colors have faded with the passing of yet another day underneath a sweltering sun.
The brain-dead gather to take selfies at riots, as the homeless just yearn to escape the cycle.
We step over corpses en route to Disneyland to pretend that the white picket fence dream still exists.
As Mommy gets bent over the kitchen table for her Only Fans, and Pops is figuring out what to do with that hooker's decomposing corpse in the trunk of his car.
While Bobby is a quarterback hero of high school, yet prefers the reflection in the mirror of his high heels and fishnets.
And his big sister just wishes to get the fuck out of this nowhere town.
We whitewash reality and roast marshmallows over a dumpster fire's flames.
Pretend hope does exist with equality.
As Officer Mitchel just wants to blow his brains out rather than face another day.
The happy ending is a momentary release; the ugly truth is a permanent scar.
Everyone's ready to fulfill an internal bloodlust.
The prisons overflow, and the psych ward is filled with those who are far more rational than those controlling our destiny upon their soapboxes and in Senate meetings.
Doing essentially nothing, as they always have.
Anarchy rules by proxy, my children.
We are playing with fire upon a moment's notice.
You cannot hit the ball unless you swing the bat.
Care to chase bullets with me, my dear?
John Patrick Robbins is a Southern Gothic writer.
His work has appeared in Horror Sleaze Trash, Piker Press, Schlock Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily, Fixator Press and here at Disturb The Universe.
He is the author of Midnight Masochism and Are We Dead Yet?
Both of which are published by Black Circle Publishing.
His work is often dark and always unfiltered.
