A Never Ending Bloodbath Poem by Theorem The Truth Serum

I'm an MC on a stage with a mic and filled with rage.
Can't turn the page until this episode is over.
Can't get lucky without a four leaf clover.
So I stand and wait, for God to give me a clean slate,
and I ask the world to erase the hate like pencil mistakes.
It has already been too late, but it's never too late to be great.
Like Alexander, on my music I meander like a creek dwelling salamander.

I wear my camouflage like a mirage to sabotage
my flaws like my own personal plastic surgeon.
Cuttin up my weaknesses so I can be a better version.
We're all beautiful up to our last breath,
but in death, we express the struggle to accept.
Because our minds are inept to understand the concept.
There is so much possibility, but we end it quickly
by fostering a discouraging affinity.
I just wish we would shine vibrantly, may humanity
live as one, one day or some other way
that no one has thought up so therefore, they would never say.

Why can't a genius be free of capitalism, rather than
being a divided schism working for the men of the prism.
But guess I can forgive them, they know not but I guess if they did, they'd be shot, or left in a ditch buried alive
left to rot.

My paragraphs breathe life into so many wasted epitaphs.
Too many people predicting life through graphs and math.
Why can't we use it to take us off this warpath?
Where the innocence feel the aftermath of a man's wrath
that morphs into a never ending bloodbath.