God�s helping hand�s just a bit too late.
A superficial place based on popular belief�
Escape would bring a sentimental relief.
Society�s failure without a speck of love�
Strangling me like a giant hand in a small glove.
To be constantly battered, bruised and hurt
Makes their sorries dissolve to dirt.
Fed with guilt, not patience or feeling,
No emotion left�just a coal-less engine steaming.
This stigma reveals my treacherous thought
As what I thought �was�, turns into �was not�.
I pray the lord my soul to take
Drowning in some murky lake.
Mr. Nice Guys finish last
In a world so cruel and fake.
-