Create your disaster

When you feel the stern feeling of pen,
or the tap of a keyboard, creation is yours,
maker of disaster and love, your fortitudes.
Pass-time of the generation with to much,
the self-obsessive compulsive,
the wafer thin nobody, wants to be slim,
the 21st century, gone to the ones who want.

This time we write what the need is,
sell-sufficed we weren't responded.
This time we call you the ones with the want,
suffice to say we're the ones called the hypocrites.
Benefiters of a 21st society, gone to the ones
who want.

When the silence embarks, your prose is done.
Your message committed; this is the one you do not send.
Details of your harm, written in metaphor,
hidden by the ones who want.