Feel the wetness of my pillow,
of nights uncollectable billows,
unburying old hatchets deep below,
They could scream constantly in length,
counting downwards starting from the tenth,
enlisting me a case of mental health,
the ghosts of inadequecy my wealth.
I understand everything has its price,
and yea this isn't a surprise,
sins of a father i did reprise,
a new edition to revise.
But hey, on a question of patience,
how does it work on a dead conscience,
in search of vengence,
after slaying humanity with religions forgiveness.
Oh too hard to answer now doctor?
Or maybe I ought to ask the dead pastor,
wasn't he meant to be his mentor,
to guide and make him heavenly better,
but he couldnt control his lustful centre,
doctor, he was my son, my only son,
something had to be done,
but the law,
didnt see what i saw...
feel the wetness of my pillow... guilt, regret, sorry, nay?
I didn't think so too