Judge me for what I understand.
Judge me for what it's worth for I'm worth nothing compared to a misconception called religion.
Judge me for I've known too much, for a frivolous child you put in a library filled with questions and expect no rhetorical.
Judge me for I'm a lonely stripper hustling on the white lanes of somewhat loving and somewhat beliefs.
Nothing in this world is real except excruciating pain.
At least I have the white lanes to call something, perhaps emissaries would stop harassing us with propaganda and mantras of men who searched for wisdom.
The enlightened ones; the prophet; and the coming messiah to rapture what's good about his truth and leave the remains for the beast to torture and I will still have to believe you love and created me.
Then again the humanitarian morals on what's good and what's bad create a void of a belief that anchors the written literature of the translated Latin and Arabic.
Perhaps I would be probably dead soon cause I've known too much or said too much.
Then again it would only prove what the Romans hide beneath the painful death of a saint from a translated literature.
I guess Da Vinci knew a demon, or he saw darkness as a code to which creativity bellows.
Maybe my judgment would exist as a book for another to decipher more truth in my written Adamic symbols.
Just maybe.
I'll be judged.
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