Confessions Of The Lost

This brainwashed agenda is forced down my fucking throat...

I feel sickly from the influences finding their way in my path,
Like a moth to a flame,

To them, life is a game, and the more points you get, the more crowns you recieve...

Only if you make another believe.

I am the targeted objective,

One rejected from their cleche clique of clowns.

I wear my skin as a jewel and my face as a mask...

I stick to the task and feel numbness engulf my senses...

See the world through hell colored lenses...

My mind is thick as fuck with confessions from weak souls of the lost,

They pay with a pricy cost of a heathy feel and a heatly break...

Simply because depravation causes a whole new pleasure to ache.

Fuck all your ethically correct codes sent from the divine...

I want to hear the army's of your god fall and whine like a whore,

I am the objective you adore and abhore... with a trance of a hold

You sold your soul for a feeling of being whole,

The game takes it's toll