Pity the Murderer

Flustered we sit,
Our fingers pointed
At the poor soul
That had his heart stolen
Bit by bit.
And now there is nothing left,
And all that remains
Is an empty rut
With no love,
Pity, or shame.

And yet we sit here
Upon our high stools,
Taunting them as they come near
For we, with our
Remarkably stagnate lives,
Have never been beaten,
Raped,
Or starved for affection
To the point of it
Becoming a deep, unhealthy infection
That spreads to the core.

But still we judge,
Despite the fact
That people make people bad.
And all that’s left
Is anger and strife,
That strikes upon the land.

So send them to death,
For the ignorant wouldn't know,
That because of what We’ve cause,
We shoulder the greatest burden
Of all.