My stomach finds a way to make me naucious;
The words, they churn, they fear my conscience.
Even if my finger wasn't halfway down my throat,
My existence is pointless, one of God's misquotes.
Lie and cheat, point and steal,
My gut keeps the demons in my head concealled.
Laugh and taunt, torture and play,
Stained blood on the carpet is just another day.
My stomach finds a way to make me naucious.
The words,
they churn.
They fear my conscience.
