composure

On the surface I might look composed but beneath it I am not
As I survey the world around me and the madness of it all
A spoiled lot of children who see slights that just aren't there
In their "anger" seething to make things "just" and "right"
They feel so righteous as they make those judgement calls
On people far and near of whom they know nothing
They would reach out and take the food from the mouths of babes
They would trample on the weak if they stood in the path
Yet they call themselves righteous
And if you ask them, they respond in all their feigned piety
About how things are so bad and so hard and so tough
As they sit in their comfort
On their upholstered thrones
With food in their bellies
They don't turn a blind eye, no, they simply refuse to look
To acknowledge
To even think about it
"Besides", they probably say, "it is likely deserved"
On the surface I might look composed
But on the inside, I am screaming