Cigarettes, Saints, and Sinners

They say those who don't sin are saints who paint others'
Hearts with gold
Their names written in bold on scrolls
Warming the cold hearts of the sinners
Can these saints really be trusted?
I saw a man who claimed to be a saint
His voice faint and fingers jet black
While smearing them onto the hearts of the fallen
I hear them calling my name
They only do this for fame
I came into this world not knowing I had to choose who to follow
These saints are not truly pure of heart
The man who I saw, had blood covering his hands from
Those who had fallen
That's when it hits me
Some try and disguise themselves as
Pure to harm the rest
This world is a cigarette
Filled with toxins and all we tar,
Yet we inhale each other
And wonder why we are not happy
I'd rather choose to love and help heal the wounded
Than to be called a saint who isn't one
I'd rather be called a sinner who tried to help
The rest because in the end
We all die as sinners

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