God is the play master in this sick world;
I am his marionette, created solely
for his torture as he searches
for new ways to make me fail and reject
the ultimate gift he has given us.
He brings tears to my eyes and
festering wounds of denial to my
blackened flesh.

I'm a perfect waste of his time.
I want to become the wind in
his nightmares, reversing the "blessing"
of life, undoing his birth and existence
as I exstinguish mine for him.

No one can convince me otherwise
as I look into the surreal moonlight,
inhaling the crisp summer air,
bathing in the obsidian rays
of the night.

I am past listening to lectures
from the loves of my dead past.
This isnt a cry for help...
not anymore at least.
People stare at me. They point, laugh...

"God created her for all the wrong reasons"

And I believe that I am a forgotten ragdoll
rotting in the bedroom of a three year old.
The three year old of my undesirable
pumping lump...a lump that is
pumping warm sanguine rivers
for everything about this
God and his wickedness he places
upon me in this masterpiece of the century.

I hate my existence as crystal tears
now form in my eyes, burning my flesh
while spilling over into an unforgiving
God ruled world. I see the facades of
appiness drenched with my despair,
unchanging and never breaking under
the pressure like my worthless body.


I truly am a waste of flesh.









---this is what I'm feeling. i feel disrespected, and im only here for god's play.--

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