The Hand that Penned the Butterfly

the pain of awareness, too much to just get drunk
flying birds, prying words, and lying herds
there’s enough of a world to push artists to extinction
but not a drying pen
                               then
the hand that penned the butterfly dies

carbon inhalation and digital pixilation
what am I to do with you, myself
there’s no shelf big enough for mass hysteria
there’s not enough needles to cure Earth’s depression
too much time for one last therapy session
when you get a cough, off to the doctor you scoff
you can’t heal the blues with a new pair of shoes
unless you’re willing to choose you over the world

what would greed do for a starving child
the world doesn’t have problems, people do
there’s usefulness in the word Molotov
when things get out of hand don’t trust a big letter man
all they’ve got is retail
it hurts when you get down to the bottom rail
don’t give yourself to an empty shelf
all of that would add up to poison

Poem by:
M.E.L.

Accompanied painting entitled The Hand that Penned the Butterfly (also by M.E.L)