The warm breeze of your not-so-well thought out reasons melts me.
Don't tell me to stop this train of thought,
i'm not getting off till i have reached my destination (wherever it may be).
the irony creaked with a silent wisp of sarcasm.
you say, "my god keeps me safe and nourishes my reasons so that his decisions are mine, and mine is his."
i say, "your god is the shit that nourishes my tree of reason, which bears the fruits of clear knowledge. i have control of free will to pick the fruits i desire or to spit out the flesh if i despise it."
you say, "my god will account my actions to reserve me a place by his side, so that i'm ever closer to him."
i say, "your god is the stench of the sweating working-class, while the well laid out plans promise of hollow promises. my actions makes me a god if it's beneficial to the whole. it's disgusting to think of earning an imaginary place by your imaginary god, that sounds selfish and above all, foolish."
you say, "your tongue is the devil's tool. you must try to control it or even cut it off if needed."
i say, "IF, your god is the creator of everything, is he not the satan himself?! if he is he, and he is him, and we are him. my reasons simply asks me to merely exist with you, share it with you and when the time comes, give up this form and exist some more in a form i do not know or care."
