I am blame.
I wonder how many people I can accuse;  they yell, they scream, they abuse.
I hear sounds of feet stomping as they run away from a crowd; the sounds they are making are ear splitting and loud.
I see fingers being pointed- as more and more people become disappointed.
I want resentment to grow and spread, as horrible feelings flood through people’s heads.
I am blame.

I pretend I’m not doing anything wrong, as I see the fighting go on and on.
I feel satisfied when I see the guilt and fear- as my victims burst into tears.
I touch people’s lives in the very worst way - and I inflict this pain everyday.
I worry that people may realize how foolish they are, as their frustration goes too far.
I cry when people find out the truth, as they accuse everyone- even the youth.
I am blame.

I understand the sadness and despair – but truly, I choose not to care.
I say that I’m doing “what is right,” to justify all the fights.
I dream of the guilt the people will feel, as their actions and words grow outrageous and unreal.
I persuade more people that they are at fault- then one by one, they begin to assault.
I hope that they never realize I am the enemy- because for these kinds of wounds, there is no remedy.
I am blame.