To the masses nobody knows exactly what perturbs this young man,
Verily, while my judgment rarely be cast I do house quirks of my own,
Quirks that make my blood seem to boil and seethe with rage unconquered,
Many ultimatums found at the cost of the source of all corruption: miscommunication.
Global cultures demented by nations usurped with ambitions unclear,
Leaders in great positions instilling its people with boundless fear,
Or those same leaders disregarding its unthoughtful civilians,
Perhaps depleting Gaia herself to feed the ruthless millions;
The nation's steps for progression seem recessive in current evaluation,
The false notion of great things to pass seems as if victory sweet is nigh,
Though the reality hits and everything is as clear as fog in the morning sky.