| I once heard my mother say that heaven isn’t really so far away but recently
|
| somethings changed in me and I know this will kill her but I’ll have to
|
| disagree
|
| Because I’ve grown tired of the stained-glass and ceiling tiles,
|
| prescription pills and the blind faith trials. |
| It’s genocide in a different
|
| style
|
| I won’t ask for forgiveness. |
| I won’t ask for forgiveness. |
| I’m no longer afraid
|
| Because I’ve found faith in myself and the people I love. |
| Not through
|
| medication or forgiveness from above. |
| Left in the dark with no divine light.
|
| Only helping hands and my own will to fight
|
| With experience we unearth the roots to grow. |
| At one point in time our rope
|
| ends or unwinds and leaves your mind tangled and closed. |
| Role searching,
|
| it’s what defeats and mangles most. |
| But what keeps your heart soul surfing
|
| lends to living on as ghosts
|
| Maybe we’re not all living in hell but we’ve been conditioned to live in a
|
| prison cell. |
| Hide me from whatever concept this instills or hang me from the
|
| rafters of this people mill
|
| Death is an architect. |
| It’s shaping days and taking names through heart attacks
|
| and common disconnects
|
| And at least I can say I’ll be ready for it |