Lunacy is winning the conflict ripping away at my brain and unreceptive flesh. Leaving me trapped in an indulgent prison with an open door. I try to quiet the voices but their laughter drowns out my plea. Gentleness shall not lie in me this illustrious night, and my sole companions fear and self loathing remain. God does not give grace to vain and tortured men such as I. Instead he leaves me to my own inadequate enduringness to fight monsters as of yet unknown.
The almighty does not see me as the helpless and misled Sheep in need of a Shepard, but as the revolting and sin leveled goat best served by the butcher's blade. So he turns to me his backbone, granting me no vision of his ordained face. I beg for mercy from his affectionate and wise soul, but grant it he will not. To my knees I do fall pulling at my cutis and praying the vocalization will cease. But I am to be unprotected alone with my tormentor, veins unconcealed to his every whim.
-Johnny V.
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