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Goddamn us.
There's a black toxic waste,
where I once made the paste,
that held the bindings on our battered book.
Oh holy book, deliver us from this one.
Silence.
For one, rationale makes me think twice
of a god with a hold button.
Forsake your creation.
Forgive, Forget, Forsook.
We are sentient, God damn us,
We are sentient. Wash that off.
We're pumping Christ into our veins,
a true prayer over life's stains,
and when it starts to hurt
they'll blame winged growing pains.
God damn us, we are sentient.
We are the emotion of the motionless,
a torn cloak of innocence.
We can wring the wood dry,
but we'll still sink for our sins.
And this is all a better suit to wear,
when the shadow tunes our bell.
Truth hurts eyes that are too weak to bear it.
Your morals freeze over hell.
And it's a cold, dry place to find yourself.
