Acid; The Windows to My Soul

Resting snuggly on my forehead.

Two eyes become four.

Protecting the windows

to my old soul.

Oh,

safety goggles.

My head,

It shakes;

It bobbles,

but you don't budge.

Patron of vision.

The plutonite drudge.

Without you,

the woke aerosol acid

that sprays out of the mouth

of the social justice warrior,

(individuality flaccid)

would carve craters into my corneas,

all the way to my cortex.

As a result,

my old soul,

It would become a violent vortex.