How could any good,
come from this broken soul of mine?
Prayers never do what they should,
but they tell me I'll be fine.
Depression feeds religion
or is that just my line?
Could this suffering be conviction
my warning from divine.

Across the rooftops the bells do sing.
Blessings lurk through the haphazard pews.
Here do not lie a low mound of shoes;
But a stock of praise and carolling.

My mother she was one with palms pressed
                                                Asking for help..
Help to feed us,
Help to keep her afloat.

You listened, wait what was that?
                                     you didn't...
Na you played her, used her trust
in you like a torment, she looked to
the heavens and all you gave was hell..

Men were  less than what she saw,
but always too late.
            Married in your place
                                         of every prayer.
But you just kept knocking her down there.

Last time I went to church was
                    because there was free chocolate.
You see with me, my mother grasped  at
straws. She went from one form of you
to another like a ****** clinging to a new fix.

But you were just like before, same old ****,
                 different day...
I knew long before you weren't one to be trusted?
Why you ask? Because there where ones before you..
                      I read your book in the fantasy section.
This thing needed a
                    
                           Parental Guidance Sticker.

Some contorted morals, thrown in with what
                  can be only described as a  WFT's.
I knew that those at these places of worship
                   peddling there own version of this god..
Didn't believe there own words, so why the hell
would I be gullible enough to be a sheep in there world.

The last time I went to church,
                                         was for free chocolate.
                                    The last time she went was in a coffin..

I'll cry you a river,
so I can bath in salty,
bright and perfect pain.
Let me shiver from
the words you tell me.
Let me drown
in emotional aching.
Let me summon
tenderness in my bones.
Make me cry I said,
and so the monster did.
Breathing like a beast
so much that only a priest
would be able to save
a nun like me.
For I go to church
and cry for my God
every Sunday
to Monday.
What God didn't know
was that crying means more
than sadness to me.
It means pleasure in ways
that are rotten and spoiled.
It means the Devils hands touch me
without God's permission.
Oh God, secrets are fun
and thrills run
up and down
so much that I end with a crown.
And I don't need your approval
for I've done it already
and I dare do it again
and again and again.
Till I'll make you cry and you'll
be just like me.
Even if you don't agree.