When the nameless man comes knocking at my door, to sell me dreams, I hope I'm not too busy spending my money on sleeping drugs at the corner store. God may misjudge me for saying prayers in such a poor taste,—but would he still feed me the mercy, of knowing I never really had the taste of freedom?

I never meant to distance myself from any reasoning. But I'm always the forgetful one; putting everything of everyone first in my plans,— I must of forgotten about myself again, along with what it meant to be Christian
I sang songs with the dogs, to worship any hand that fed me
well enough, to become so reliant on every man. I slept with every shadow that came with the promise of any brighter day.
But its just an old tale for another yesterday, that I'm chasing like
a relentless dog,— And by the bones in my closet, those skeletons look to be nothing more than the many meals I'd feast on.

But every dog has it's day, and if all dogs do go to Heaven, I must be a dog at the end of it's breath, hoping it's maker does hear it's barking prayer.