Complaint Department

We own this world of pain

The deed is signed and our souls are sold

Complaints can be filed any day

But maybe you protest too much already

This office is closed, move on to the next

You whisper behind their backs

Please turn around I have something to say

Are you hurt now, where's you mercy

My bloodied heart weeps not tears,

No not tears, instead there is only more blood

We drench ourselves in hate;

This thick, glossy coat of nothing but hate

And then question their motives

I want to scream in your face

Would any good come of that

Apparently not, the rain has started again

I sit on the concrete bench

It all falls apart;

The streets next door crumble to nothing

And all complaints are filed no more.