Grieving Father, Thy Will Be Done

The mind is a powerful thing

Unless it reminds us to let my freedom ring

When no one is watching the choices they make

Directly affect those from who they will take

Not wisdom or lessons but fleeting obsessions,

Searching for truths in our own false confessions.

What do you mean I have to learn my own lessons?

I am looking for a kama sutra session

A one way conversation where my delusion is validated

Excuses abound and now my ego’s inflated.

And whatever I do next is now being dictated.

Right? Right? Right? Right? Right?

Now let's send the dogs out to fight!

She cries victim, her tears an endless stream,

While the grieving father carries a shattered dream.

Two tales collide in the shadow of strife,

One claims the wound, the other lost a life.

The envious woman, her heart full of spite,

Won’t carry the life yet she dims the light

Of the one who will

She disparages another woman with venomous chill.

The envious one, who likes to be called "bad bitch"

Thinks there is power on the other side for her

so she hides that she's a practicing witch

While sending hysteria in the way of the one

Who has given him hope, the light of the sun.

Engaging in witchcraft for the power she craves,

Yet won’t claim the path or the culture it paves.

She mocks the roots while stealing the art,

A hollow spell cast from a counterfeit heart.

But hey now, I work with the demons!

I tell them everyday how much I love their semen!

I work with the angels!

But if I don't work close enough then it may look like you fell!

Oops!

Oh look everyone

It's the God or the Devil that's making them ill

Because I seem to have forgotten my own free will

And by forgotten I mean she takes no accountability

For what her hands do next because it's not her responsibility!

You see how we went from "I" to she?

What about him? What about we?

We? Him? What about you?

So long as there is one human to speak true,

Then what comes next is a messenger made of you

Angel or Demon it's going to depend

On how the dictator wants the story to end Behold! I declare,it's the God or the Beast,

Pulling my strings in this moral feast.

For my free will is missing or so I pretend,

And my deeds are just scripts for the story to end.

But truth speaks louder than demons or saints,

In the canvas of choices we’re all the paint.

Idolatry thrives when accountability wanes,

When we worship the pleasure and bypass the pains.

Idolatry is okay so long as she feels good

At this point she's invited the entire neighborhood

To make villain of him

When she pushes him to the edge she hopes he can't swim

Whoops, were those her hands that pushed?

That was the point, psychological ambush.

Into the depths where silence hushes,

Drowning in lies as blame she brushes.

But she'll claim it was fate, or the devil's cruel shove,

Never her choice, never her lack of love.

Never never land,

And now this is starting to sound like Peter Pan.

A delusion of grandeur,

And we are all to make her the center.

But enough about her, let's talk about you,

I want you to forget all the pain you been through.

Let's worship the qualities that to you only look good,

Twisting the virtues to fit where we all stood.

So the Demon likes to cause us to sin

And if you're on the Angels side then you win!

And if the Angel decides you're gonna be taken out

Then the demon will feast and there’s no doubt.

But when the battle’s over and the dust settles down

The truth is we’re both wearing the same crown.

For in the end it’s the soul we betray,

Not the Angel or Demon who leads us astray.

It's the innocent life we drown out

And look past his story

Exalted the fame

And attach what we think to a name.

The good is subjective

And so is the bad

Your perception is skewed from the life that you've had.

But if you think extermination is justified,

And fail to see it’s a human who lied,

Blame shifts to the ether, to forces unseen,

While the hands of the guilty are scrubbed clean.

A tale of divinity or devilish design

While the envious bitch hides on the thinnest line.

So let's call a spade a spade

It's a human behind every choice that is made

And the winner will decide what's written in the books

And the story that's told depends on how the shameful one looks.

The books will be written, the stories will tell,

Of a Heaven we climbed or a self made Hell

But in every page let the echoes ring true

The author of fate has always been you.

And when ruin remains from the paths that they paved,

It’s your hand, not theirs, that etched what’s engraved.

The ink of destruction, the pen that defames,

The author is you when it’s time to name names.