soon.

xviii.

̶ ̶ xviii. TOO LATE.

why was it that we were the ones left to clean up the mistakes of God? with our enemies back to back, we bicker like children over who left the mess and no one concludes to ever cleaning it up themselves. with misery on the tip of our tongues and the devil sitting on our backs, we work in a chaos world that no one survives in. we try to grasp on to the idea that falling in love and having money is all we need to get through until death rises and takes away everything you've ever known, but the only thing bigger than that lie is God as he is. how he sits back, watches his creation fall apart right in front of his own two eyes, and gives up on the people he thought he knew well. how he views us in disgust, all hope gone ever since Lucifer came along.

we live in a world full of our Father's art, something he should be proud of, but still finds the pen at fault for the mess than blaming himself. we were born from a Father who is nothing more than selfish under his fingernails, misunderstood and aching for something rather than imperfections.

tell me mother, how am i supposed to love him
when he doesn't even hear me? how am i supposed to believe he isn't another lie made up
by mankind so the fear of death isn't as greatly known?

how am i supposed to trust him when
i've already greeted the devil himself?