When it sounds like talking down, I’m beating me up

I, say you, 
trust in we, please don't, 
at least not when a little 
misanthropy is sticking out of my shirt, 
the human element is a judgement 
on a self who feels billiard balled 
across the green stuff 
into pockets that seem designed by 
living devils in the upstairs land. 

Capital crimes are prosecuted against 
the one who is forced 
to sit through a rant, 
judge as harshly 
as my eyes do 
so that I might confine my complaints 
to the fire and stone.

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