If you paint for me even one thing which is true, perhaps I’ll be tempted to consider two. I tell tales poetically, someone else needs to set them to music.
My letter to those who struggle with the Bloody Mess of Penal Substitution and Hell on a Cross
World eats itselfand rubs at its bellyRescuers crash on the wind of its drop
It’s a 4k bleed on Friday nightIt’s a beer that nobody’s paidA look at the sky for a Savior frightand whether it’s good to get laid
Not in an alleyNot at the clubNot in the gymNot with a snub
The world is strangling on its selfSex drips from its poresPinkish dreams of fate and wealthSwim whalebone to its shores
Leaving her twenties felt no less than alienWhy should a day split her atoms?