I see goldfish eyes, squiting back at me, obliviously.

I see sadness in their eyes, and in others I see blue steel bravado.

Red eyes, staring backwards, red eyes in the back of their heads. Little white noses, vicious and scarred underbites.

Somehow there's always a cancer stick or two, protuding below the top lip. Spewing sickness.

Faces in the night, some with huge foreheads, always retreating. I wonder what's inside, what drives them, how the face must feel for its mind.

Human likeness in all we see. Seeing humans in the likeness.

Sheep.

I see you in the streets, but you don't see me. You're on the prowl and I'm on the stalk, a wooded stalk. You're so in tune with your surroundings yet I can see you amongst all those stripes.

I like the way you're fashionable, yet I have bitter taste for your wanted fashionability. You're so sick, sick with greed, sick with envy, your vision milky from trying to see your objective, your mind misty from thoughts of capture.

Why do you love yourself so much? Why do you walk past me and not bat a pretty lash? Why do you portray this aura of confidence if your mind is infested with insecurity. Its eating you from the inside, so thank your convenient god for masks of make-up.

You're so lonely, because you chose your friends like expensive couture. Fashions change, designers die from drug overdoses, your closet full of clothes has moths.

On any given night, when the union of undead are out, you pack your companions and pull smiles, the edge of your lips taught from the puppeteering strings that bind you.

Touting the booze, you're so cheap. Intoxicated with your own identity, the same identity on the bodies of your brethren. Anything outside of your cirlce of riveted robots is dirty, look inside you and know that you're filthy too.