could i ever be happy with our ill brought up creed
who bleed the ones that they love
and love the ones that they need
how wasteful
how sinful
how human and blithe
i now often question
if my god’s still alive
why if change is a virtue and your red ink hold true
then my cuckolded pride can long fare without due
but it wont
and ill rust
wind will pick me apart
smear narcotic graffiti
inside of my heart
my fire rains down, and theirs will soon too
we can hope that by then
there’s a lot less to prove
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