I live in a berserk moor
During a nasty dirt war
Life now the worst chore
So I enter church doors
But somehow hurt more
Once I’m alone on the floor

I sit in a pew
With nothing to do
For I’m one of the few
Not up on the news
Or part of the stew
So I sit there and lose

Should I just give in
Because I don’t fit in?
Or is that I sin?
It seems I can’t win
With my glass chin
And mask of skin

The church is a microcosm of society
And my acceptance a sign of propriety
But I feel anxiety and paranoia biting me
While everyone else gets along delightfully
I sit in the corner
Like a silent mourner
Or Christopher Dorner
An unwanted reformer

I get so nervous
During the service
Did God serve this?
Do I deserve this?
Or can I swerve this
Feeling I’m worthless?

If I could just be myself
They could probably help
But remembering pain I felt
I put my personality on the shelf
Avoiding similar welts
To the ones I’ve been dealt