Kool-aid, fried chicken, potatoes and gravy.
We’re all gonna die from the sugar inside those diabetic cookies
And rows of donuts, danishes, plastic plates, sweet tea & lemonade beverages,
So much of it that it makes me sick to see the trash bins
Full of half-eaten food, dropped by lazy hands,
Now everyone lifts their hands during worship and
I feel foolish, I don’t understand, because their smiles are fake and
I know the way they will talk about me when I go walking away,
Will hear them whispering later about each other, and oh my God,
There’s something so sinister here…
I know it because I don’t hear about demons, or evil, or hell, or pain, or fear
Anywhere else but inside of these walls with no windows, where
I am told I will burn for my questions, and she goes up to the altar again, and so does he
They do this, the same ones, every single week
Because deep down, they don’t believe anything they’re hearing -
Their soul keeps vomiting up these spoon-fed ideologies - so there must be
Something wrong, some sin in their ******* that beats them senseless and
Makes them ignorant, childish victims that need to be rescued
Over. And over. And over again.
The music is repetitive, reminding us we are helpless. Broken. Our own minds are not to be
Trusted. Here comes a fat white man, who opens his mouth and reads a line
From the equally fat little white book in his hand. Here comes that same twisted sort of rhetoric -
Sin, shame, death, isolation, separation, judgment, sin, sin, sin.
Who is this Jesus, who is always different in every sermon?
Sh. Just listen. You are loved - unconditionally.
So you better worship. Or be tortured for an eternity.
Now, no more questions -
The man is sweating under stage lights, asking, “do you know where you’re going? Well, do you?”
Repeat after me, sheep, and you will be free! Grazing forever in paradise
Where those infinite, rolling pastures are always green.
But for all that they’re selling, there’s a **** ton of food outside in that dumpster smelling
And pesticides in the river, and a homeless man shivering, his socks soaking,
And my youth pastor friend is ************ after church, he’s addicted to *********** ashamed
Of his totally natural and ****** needs, and my sister is crying, she
Tried to rush into a marriage to please the church family, who promised the joys of monogamy,
And my mother is trying to undo her years of religion-induced trauma in therapy,
And I am sitting alone in the bathroom after the service, crying
Because no matter how badly they want to save my soul,
Not a single **** one of these people ever actually cared about me.
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 9:36 PM UTC
Kool-aid, fried chicken, potatoes and gravy.
We’re all gonna die from the sugar inside those diabetic cookies
And rows of donuts, danishes, plastic plates, sweet tea & lemonade beverages,
So much of it that it makes me sick to see the trash bins
Full of half-eaten food, dropped by lazy hands,
Now everyone lifts their hands during worship and
I feel foolish, I don’t understand, because their smiles are fake and
I know the way they will talk about me when I go walking away,
Will hear them whispering later about each other, and oh my God,
There’s something so sinister here…
I know it because I don’t hear about demons, or evil, or hell, or pain, or fear
Anywhere else but inside of these walls with no windows, where
I am told I will burn for my questions, and she goes up to the altar again, and so does he
They do this, the same ones, every single week
Because deep down, they don’t believe anything they’re hearing -
Their soul keeps vomiting up these spoon-fed ideologies - so there must be
Something wrong, some sin in their ******* that beats them senseless and
Makes them ignorant, childish victims that need to be rescued
Over. And over. And over again.
The music is repetitive, reminding us we are helpless. Broken. Our own minds are not to be
Trusted. Here comes a fat white man, who opens his mouth and reads a line
From the equally fat little white book in his hand. Here comes that same twisted sort of rhetoric -
Sin, shame, death, isolation, separation, judgment, sin, sin, sin.
Who is this Jesus, who is always different in every sermon?
Sh. Just listen. You are loved - unconditionally.
So you better worship. Or be tortured for an eternity.
Now, no more questions -
The man is sweating under stage lights, asking, “do you know where you’re going? Well, do you?”
Repeat after me, sheep, and you will be free! Grazing forever in paradise
Where those infinite, rolling pastures are always green.
But for all that they’re selling, there’s a **** ton of food outside in that dumpster smelling
And pesticides in the river, and a homeless man shivering, his socks soaking,
And my youth pastor friend is ************ after church, he’s addicted to *********** ashamed
Of his totally natural and ****** needs, and my sister is crying, she
Tried to rush into a marriage to please the church family, who promised the joys of monogamy,
And my mother is trying to undo her years of religion-induced trauma in therapy,
And I am sitting alone in the bathroom after the service, crying
Because no matter how badly they want to save my soul,
Not a single **** one of these people ever actually cared about me.
