Always stuck inside a world
******* me over; loves
to fornicate
The mouths with nothing better
to say; just words forming hate
And their eyes filled with ******
violence; it's always focused hate

As I was close to meeting death's deadline,
not even given two weeks notice
They assumed I was too weak to notice
as the smell of death was red, like a
resting bed of roses; in a garden
grave I lay
But maybe nowadays I'd be seeing songs
about how graves turn into gardens
Still it's grave for me to say, I'm still on
that path of feeling saved
As I could probably count all my prayers,
and dig up that dusty Holy text in my drawer
that's like the book's final grave

I figure that the figures counting
out another day
Are what we figure gives us a little
hope of being figures to this world,
That still live to see tomorrow by
heaven's sake