The Punk Prayer
I found god inside of the gutter and baptized my soul with a 40 oz Steele Reserve Malt Liquor.
I sip on gas station wine for communion and to numb the pain of existence as my sleep is haunted by many horrible nightmares.
I see the world so clearly sometimes it sends shivers down my spine and makes me filled with utter rage at how fake it really is.
Yeah I know money is important to live but also it gives false comfort and security to those used to it. I lost almost all of mine and felt nothing inside.
Lived off a greyhound bus for 3 days off a guitar case for a Martin backpacker on a road trip.
And when I’m on the street a guitar, a gun, or a knife and some cheap wine is all I need to feel at home anywhere I roam at night.
For I am an outcast by society. Yet secretly love people even though my tongue is barbed.
I’m a woman in soul but trapped in a body not fully mine and even my vocal cords can’t scream loud enough to hide all the pain I feel.
So I prefer to say nothing instead and decide to laugh it off and put up my middle finger to those who piss on me from above.
Then take my body the fuck back piece by piece in ink or piercings or scraps of clothes I can afford it once I get my estrogen injection each week.
And live in bars until I get kicked out or cut off.
Hang out with bikers then Rinse and repeat.
That is enough for me. Amen.
