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.