If suffering was a god, you would be my idol.
If pain were a virtue, you would be my goal.
If lies were pleasing, you would be my truth.
But I see through you like the glass of my rotten soul.
No wall can guard you from the darkness in my heart.
Let my wondrous pain be the toll,
For the game you called an art.
If Alice was in your wonderland,
She would have thought it was hell.
Upon my crooked lips you spoke of hope.
Was I the devil or angel to your deity?
Yet, the suffering was never you
It was always me.
My crooked heart tainted an angel
For my crimes, I was punished with the devil I made.
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