I've cried out to God during all my times of need,
And tried opening the door.
But it seems that my qualms he will never heed,
Even as I pray, falling to the floor.

The door is not locked, see,
The door does not exist;
But what does?
The blood flowing through my wrists.

It's time to let him go, to turn the page,
And to let it all evaporate, the unrequited rage.
He does not exist, he is not all around,
He doesn't care if his children are safe and sound.

That's okay, counting on myself is better,
Than using fantasy as a crutch, an old sweater.

I believe in people, I believe in love,
I just don't believe that any comes from above.

It* happened again,
the **** thing called a *relapse.
Thanks for being clean
just a little while.
Thank You
So Very Much.

I don't understand
why being the last choice is so painful.
To know there is always someone better
is tearing my soul apart.
What happened to me being special?
I guess you lied just like everyone else.
Truth is, I don't give a ****.
I can't.
Because the more I care the more it hurts,
and I can't take another hit.

Like the first ray of sunshine after a week full of rain
he is a beacon of hope for all of the world.
As we are just caving in to the storm
he is able to bring back the light.

Like a lighthouse protects the ships from the shore
he protects me from the troubles of the world.
As I am beaten down by the waves of life
he lifts me up just like the tide.