Why must I tiptoe around dysfunction,
why not trade a lifetime bliss by raising a little Hell?
Why must I obscure my own vision,
and scuttle through the eggshells?
Why must I sit, when I know I should stand?
Why must I whisper, wilt and whimper?
Why be a worm, when I must be man?
I lick my wounds, guilt and bitter.
I cannot make waves to save Earth,
I must silence justice
and prepare her hearse.
Where is God, and his iron fist?
Seated, I stay.
My lips sewn shut.
The wolves lie in wait
Will no one stop their strut?