The World Capital of the Curch of Suffering

Time has laid her to rest in a coffin beneath our chests.
If we agree upon one thing it is that she doesn't deserve to be painted in black.
She's alive with viscious fangs and blood,
her mind is set and set for attack.

Many days have been spent feeding a soul only worth rotting.
But she's got other ideas in the plan she's been plotting.
She's the song you can't get out of your head, the short straw in the cup, the monster under your bed.
She's the unlucky stars you count upon,
and force-fed pills may be the pro, but she's still the con.

The thing is, she's everything you hate,
but you've kept her alive, just to house a disgrace.
You want to feel worth something, even if that something is dead.
You need that monster to consume everything they've said.
You're too weak to take it into your own skin,
so you throw it to the girl you wish you could've been.
You and I are weaker than weeds,
so we'll give up our bodies, because that's what she needs.

In time the light will shorten her fangs,
and she'll escape as quickly as she came.
There's nothing unusual about reviving this way;
in fact, I'm certain it happens most every day.
The story of a girl that's tied up inside,
She tries to break free, she screams, and she writhes.
She detaches her soul because she's convinced that it's died,
She curses the day that God created lies.

So souls like you and I, we must let the girl free
because a ressurection is in order, an overdue deed.
So bow your heads and open your chest,
Move along now as we lay ourselves to rest.
Many a day we hear "I'm better off dead"
But could you put that pen to paper and write it in red?