God is Not Dead Yet

Simple things need killing.

Burlesque even in everyday
practice and
far more crude than
other mammals, you're
beastly, animalistic in nature and
the members of your
species have put you to
sleep several times.

They used their needles to
inject you but, you would
not lie still, your
need for all things
grotesque was insatiable and
simply wouldn't be quelled.
Slut.
They had to pray for me.

Simple, simple thing.
You've acryllic fingernails,
a fleshy figure like a
corpse about to be born:
I am hiding very
far inside of you and
don't you understand?
I want you to die.
I am there and
always will be and
I'll always give you
more and
more and
more:
unkind problems with
solutions you won't ever find.
Wipe your issues with
tissues, I'm feeding on your
tears, tearing you apart and
asunder, your blunder is
inexcusable, curse your
usable form. Lie
awake in my wake,
pensive on the fact that
you cannot escape your illness.

I wish that I had
lips to kiss you goodbye
but, soon your body will be mine and
your mouth will
touch every other and
spread me like a virus and,
though I'm worth little more than
what I take from you,
it's that fact that
makes me God.

Your acryllics down inside
where I'm hiding but,
you can't stop me
until something dies.

Simple things need killing.