Modesty found its home, on the laced lined undercoat. Her ******* heaving with each breath, a sigh of relief her secret safe with herself & the men she showed. All the roserry beads between your ******* can't be counted enough to wash away your sins. So she weeps in the streets, because even the church won't take her in. And if I'm right, correct me if I'm wrong. It was jesus, who dined with prostitutes.
CAST the first stone. HE SON OF GOD, called religious people ******. Church is suppose to be a home for the broken. Not a gallerary for the great. So think about the nun, who's dead.

It's Sunday in South Africa
It's a little rainy so don't mind if I studdle
I wake up everyday with thoughts of struggle
I wanna be somebody but my inner strength start to mumble
But I got to look for happiness even though where I live it's expensive
The intesnsity of where I live almost mde me give up on poetry
I miss wearing my blessings like a roserry
It's Sunday let me go to church