Bleeding ribbons of a pretty bow(Not too happy of a poem)

It feels the same,
The sickness, vomiting my guts,
To think of our lives,
Like balloons, slowly descending down,
Toward the ground, to hell, to the abyss,
Like the prey of a hawk,
Torn to ribbons, then tied into a pretty bow,
And taped to a bomb, with a smile painted on,
Dropped into the sky, falling up to our dreams,
Our expectations bloom into burning weeds,
Casting smoke to suffocate future generations,
Your so called hero's doing their fake virtue dance,
And stepping upon what's real, pounding to dust,
Burying out hopes, every last one,
To keep you asleep, your eyes stitched shut,
I've seen, and heard, and tasted your dreams,
They haunt reality, they still my own dreams in awe,
Place a dream cloud around an evil and it becomes a hero,
And this is exactly what you are, a dark dream,
An illusion of good, disgracing the black angel,
Breaking everything down into nothing, worse then nothing,
Your servant, society bends to your will,
How many ideals have you struck down,
And then drowned to wash the blood from your hands,
Taken all those you've killed in cold hatred,
Revived them into slaves, sealing their eyes shut with rotting flesh,
Stapled above and below the now empty eye sockets,
The bow is so neatly kept, an illusion, hidden,
By the crimson tears pouring out like a broken dam,
To feed the seeds of the new weeds to start over again,
Yes, it still feels the same, the sickness, every time I rip off my own bows, like opening a gift,
A gift from life I suppose, but,
The pain is the same, everyday, every week,
You could say I enjoy this pain,
This irony of black tears falling from evil,
I smile as I staple the bows back on,
Just to rip them off again.