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Every time I try to make something live, I die, sit back and sigh, awake I lie.
Nothing will stop me, nothings possibly, enough to shock the hostility, its there to be, always to stay, never to go away, just get on your knees and pray, just to say forgiveness, or give finesse to the dreams you have, the screams so sad.

You can make me hurry, through sand take the worry, sift through the grains, wish true pain, just make it all the same.

You already know my life is over, it won't go any faster only slower, dropping the church pastor to the floor, demons escape through the eyes so black, given might to the lives trapped.

Pain is suffering, and suffering is pain, turning every good person lame. Justification is needed, from the nations seeded, implanted with a sense of destruction, always granted satisfaction for the crimes done, the times run, down to the last minute, and within it, the pain is a game.

Watching for the enemy to draw near, without a thought, empty you hear, voices in the distance will crash down with a joyless resistance. The remains of all will be buried in the rains of fall, never to be forgotten, for they are the hero's, they've lived a life so rotten, and for that they will be so.

Forget not the ones who were willing, it will not stop, the shooting and killing. They are there for us and thus will be remembered, never dismembered in our minds, in a world so blind. Endless days of confusion, will continue this illusion, making everything turn away, continue to send the men away. Send them to fight for our survival, and yet including the bible, can not understand the reasons that lie at hand. Pass on the favor to the next generation, for it will be the last destination.

Learn more about this author, Dan Larocque.
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