We'Re Not In Control Poem by Albert Witz

I'm a sweet talker.
Born this way, a Stalker.
A never ending cycle of systematic psychosis.
I was raised to be an idol, I never wanted to worship.
Words become my weapon,

Language allows for love to live in the lines I loop around your lips.
I never could quite get over your eyes or the curves about your hips.
I just wanted to love you, forever entrapped in a glove who, in spite his raw material was never quite the right fit.
And I know that this might seem cynical, my lyrical twisted vigil, remains eternal, instilled in our hearts to beat my fat rhythms internal.
My flow's too sick to recover, I lost my soul at 6 years old, the devil believes its butter. With 3 myself of I, triple 6 up in the sky, I raise my hands united to the one caust that I ignited.
The wounds are starting head, my mind is returning to real, world problems take take 3rds.

Ignorance is bliss, that's what they say, yet by that logic who's really the one to pay? Is it the citizens who don't know their own conditions when, all of a sudden, controlled by a dozen, the world as we know it retires its spin?
Yes, an oligarchy, seemingly done, they win.