It has become the situation, an epidemic of pandemic per portions. No longer the exception, we are ruled by our obsession. our desire for more, turning our babies into whores. we have become comfortably numb. our preachers and pastors, priests and masters, taking blame on the daily. the dingo ate my baby. we're unwilling to own, what we claim to believe. it's not us against them, it's we, about me. we're waiting, waiting on the world to change. as we walk by despair, clutching the dimes in our pockets. making excuses, never repentance. we're too busy, it's too messy. and we keep building fences. there's no gate way to our hearts anymore. the story has yet to change. the veil can't be repaired by glue. and the son's still crying… forgive them. they know not what they do.
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