Bed of Proses.

xxxvii.

r e l i g i o u s

you make me religious,
over the nice things,
the feeling was gorgeous,
so obvious to hide it,
sins makes me religious,
holy vicious.

the bar is the church,
so they follow where it goes,
drugs a piece of heaven and i know,
more precious than my branded clothes,
pity those pagans spilling tea,
as if they'll be notice of the TV screens,
everyone was dying to carry weights more,
than to carry their own cross.

life is a genre of dark humor,
where it's playground is the funeral,
and because we don't have absolutes,
some of us make miracles in the bedroom,
cause every bad things feels like heaven,
and every good deeds tastes like hell,
we are worshipping the things we made,
as gods who can command us to be well.

so lust, money and fame-
command us to be well,
my lovers brought famine and death,
a pain i couldn't tell,
they're burning all of the pagans,
even the most righteous one,
and all you had to do is one thing-
burn me.

burn me alive,
into the fire,
burn me right now,
'til the smoke is going down.