The Angels can't help me. I've burst into a fire. My senses twice removed from my head. Listing a lonely personality up for hire. I see him in the corner. Still hanging from his cross. A crown of thorns adheised onto his head he looked at me and said, "I'm the son of god. I died for all of your sins." I put my hands inside my pockets and thought, "Did Jesus ever really want to Live? And did he ever even want to know me? How could he love me?"
These angels still fuck me. I'm escaping a spreading fire. While I live, you're dead. With your head to bed. The smoke alarms moaning hard like a grim fucking choir. God should retire. He's aging rather fast. He can botch about me to Jesus, but I keep my distance from ugly burn outs. God is ugly. I'm fucking ugly.
all rights reserved