Yes, people. I have returned. After problemo major extreme to the tenth power squared (gah! Disney Channel has rotted my brain!!!!) I have finally moved out of my mother's house and have had a stroke of inspiration. Be proud, people. Yes, be proud indeed. Be Warned--even artists that I like shall fall victim to my angst. Nothing Personal, Brit--Just art.

Crowds screaming,
tresses of multiple shades
and colours
flying about
while flesh collides with flesh
in a sea of drunken
immature ignorance
and ecstacy
to a beat so heavy
that the drummer
creates and regulates
the heartbeat
of the crowd;
heads and bodies
thrashing about
until necks come loose
and heads cannot
be held straight;
Music companies
and corporate labels
controling the minds
of the young
and the stupid;
Feeding artists
to children
like candy
with sugar-coated records;
Pop princesses
like Spears and others
eating away
at our daughters' minds
making them believe
it's good
to starve to death
for beauty
and to have breasts
the size of microwaves;
Rappers making
the weak of courage
think guns
and violence
and drugs
are the only answers
in a world
thrown around
in its own feces;
Busted voice boxes
and ancient words
in latin
and other unknown tongues
seeping into
the brains
of those
too weak to know
that they shouldn't
take it all seriously,
and causing them
to hurt people
and themselves,
sacrificing lives
and hopes
and dreams
to some unknown
or fake God
to make it all better;
Corporate America
loves its money
as much as it does
its white-collar whores,
so much
that it manufactures singers
and actors
just to take
the earnings
and the last pennies
of the poorest person
to see a concert
or to see a movie;
Boy-bands and celebrities
who have lost
everything
including their souls
and their sense of morals,
opening their mouths
to the creamy substance
that old perverted
executives
ejaculate
while watching
their kiddy porn
and too young girls
getting excited
over their favorite musicians
during the concerts
they created
to draw the crowds
that scream, and...