I was thinking about getting myself arrested.
All the letter stopped coming in
Like I'm a dead mall Santa.
Tired Tired Tired.

And the words don't come.
The only thing I had has gone.
I can't tell all the mud and dirt
from blood. I can't tell all the tear stains
just how strained my soul's become.

I have no faith in spirit.
Hell is everywhere. The burn of whiskey.
The shame in forgetting.
I wish I still cared.

But I don't. And that's fair enough.
I don't believe in anything.
The rest of my body couldn't handle
what my body craved incessantly.
I'm ready to move on.

Colin used to watch the fields.
And feed poison to the neighbors.
All time while entertaining
that he had touched upon the
hand of god.

God just talks in madness.
My bedsheets are are trashed and broken.
I'm such a broken boy.

Maybe they should.
Just let the brain die.
G-d knows it's causes so many so
much pain.

I try to find the third act.
I try to find an ending.
But the kitchen knives and brandy-broken
wives still sing my song.
As if the hymn would help me
just to move my soul along.

God's not dead.
I think he's sleeping.
Like me.
And maybe he's just sickened in what belly lies
across the frozen lakes.
I'm here to free to source of god.
For all to see.
I'm settling for the masses.
Until the madness passes.

And all my sick confessions...
have no need for an ending.

<------ not really a comment, more of a gesture really...

Wow!!! My kind of shiit.