We eat, we sleep, and we pray.
But who do we pray to?
Is it the ones who promise us salvation
but only give us disease, darkness, and blood?
Or promises of hope, love, and flair?

We starve, we wake, and we sacrifice.
But who do we sacrifice for?
For the ones who only take, take, and take,
and give not even a dime in return?
But only death, darkness, and blood.

I look at the heavens and see light,
but not lights of hope or redemption,
only lights made to blind us and bind us—
to show us we are unworthy of them, of the divine,
to make us feel like envying them is a crime.

I search wide and far for a story without any bar,
a story where they were selfless and not so afar,
a story to help us dream and reach the sky—
not act as silent observers of the moonless sky.
But all I hear are hopeless cries of mine.

Who are they to decide what we are, what I am?
Who are they to decide my fate and worth?
Who even are they, when they haven't felt the pain of existence?
only seen the suffering from their lofty thrones afar?
All I see is cruelty and worthless promises, hearts as black as tar.