God doesn’t love me. I’ve got some anger to burn. Forget a confession. Just pass me the ashtray. Inhale, exhale. Curses precede the smoke. If I dirty my body and my mouth, hell maybe I’ll think of you. You’re my sleeping pills, my caffeine. My virus, my vaccine. My bible, my dirty magazine under the bed. I’m in trouble. We’re two perfectly matching pieces, just different puzzles. The things that an unholy world considers holy. No, they cannot change me. Nothing can save me.
You try to run away, run away from the world. But then you run away, run away from yourself and you don’t know the way home. I believe in myself. I believe in this moment before my eyes. I believe in this shot glass. But they call me a non-believer.
You try to run away, run away from the world. But then you run away, run away from yourself and you don’t know the way home. I believe in myself. I believe in this sweat on my hands. I believe my heart. I believe in love. But they call me a non-believer.
Selling me drugs? Selling me answers is the greater evil. Answers that fish out my fear, my ignorance and discontent. A lucrative business that slices them up and sells them back to me. A raw deal. Fate, a calling, destiny. Salvation seasoned with dead ideas, making you kick over the starving present’s table in favor of a piece of the unknowable future. The root of all diseases. It’s hell’s kitchen. People gather at each’s favorite spot, under each’s blood red store sign. Claiming ‘flagship’, asserting superiority of taste. When they’re all selling the same poison. The most dangerous thing is a gluttonous idea. One serving of an answer can make table legs give out. They drool until they can no longer hold a spoon. Blind faith, indigestion that vomits hate.
You try to run away, run away from the world. But then you run away, run away from yourself and you don’t know the way home. I believe in myself. I believe in this moment before my eyes. I believe in this shot glass. But they call me a non-believer.
You try to run away, run away from the world. But then you run away, run away from yourself and you don’t know the way home. I believe in myself. I believe in this sweat on my hands. I believe my heart. I believe in love. But they call me a non-believer.
There’s no way home.
Do you break my legs only to give me crutches? Do you feed me a poisoned apple when I’m starving? Do you make me hold guns and knives instead of another’s hand? Are you truly pure?
Why do you break my wings and make me crawl? Why do you belittle and shun me? Is it okay to throw stones if you’re without sin? Isn’t stoning a sin?
Oh God. He doesn’t love me. I know He doesn’t love me. Well, neither do I. Neither do I.