Here comes my little chick-a-dee.
Here to sing of sin and sympathy.
Come to spill the truth to me.
Don't tell me brother.
Don't tell me brother.

These hills hold riddles in the lime.
The stars keep on telling me I'm fine.
I just can't seem to find the time.
Please save me sister.
Please save me sister.

Can't help but live within my past.
The sun sheds light on what I lack.
Everything I breathe turns into ash.
Forgive me father.
Forgive me father.

I watched the gates of Heaven crash,
how they tumbled unto earth.
Not much longer, did the kingdom last,
Oh how the angels burned.
God had had enough of us,
he set the world ablaze.
He sat back calmly and observed,
our final screams of pain.
Now all that's left is lonesome void,
in which God may contemplate.
The experiment had run it's course,
and it had been a great mistake.

I don't know what it's like,
to rise above it all.
Only, the feeling in your gut,
when one begins to fall.
And I couldn't speak a word,
on peace, serenity.
But I can tell a thousand tales,
of woe and misery.
If the gutter held a vote,
the king, would I be crowned.
So tell me things are looking up,
I'll show you the way down.

I'm not addicted,
liquor's just the fittest liquid
to sift through the litany
of **** my mind whips
into existence.
Aids in grippin
the intricate specifics
among twisted images
that slip from
simply cryptic to mystic.
It's not *******,
just simple statistics,
the rhyming gets better
when drinkings prolific.

The crickets,
sing of nothing.
While,
the stars watch,
in equitable silence.
I,
think of screaming,
my rejection,
to the sparkling void.
Cigarette smoke,
pirouettes,
in the wind.
Grace.
It all means nothing.
Clouds consume,
the scenery.
Rain,
drowns the music.
So it goes.

Once I had a garden,
built to spite my constant gloom.
I planted hope and happiness,
those seeds will never bloom.
I had hoped that all the rain,
would see the ground be rich.
But it seems my little cloud
has only proven to restrict.
Now within my garden,
but one lonely flower grows.
The oddest rose I've ever seen,
with petals made of bones.

Gandhi once said,
"Your Christians are so unlike your Christ"
or something to that effect.
He was right.
If god was real why would he not avert his eyes?
As we maimed and ***** and slaughtered,
for the seven hundredth time.
Human beings were broken from the start.
First we killed with sticks and stones,
then transformed warfare into art.
A bitter joke indeed.
Cavernous capacity for compassion competes
with the inner beast.
Rapid acceleration  towards the exit,
planet's just gaspin' it's last breathes, death rattle.
Perpetuated by laws of desperate escalation,
accessible weapons outweigh the estimation.
Lack of communication marks the end, tower of babel.