Sometimes, maybe not at all, but all the same, quite a lot…He'll be red paint

Sometimes, maybe not at all, but all the same, quite a lot…He'll be red paint. Its of him, he'll squeeze himself out to others needs and upheavals of persecution, he'll be evenly squared and thrown away when he's dastardly out of use and fashion. So he thinks of it as his penchant, he sees it on those he sends to hands of greatness, on those he loves, those his hatred is bile upon. All of them are felled by God, and so in his ever tripping and writhing mind, it would seem, God is his enemy, yes? But every time, mind asked body and body asks mouth, it can't answer for fear of being struck to the floor. And the other side will malevolently answer,

"Pah! So scared, so scared!' Shrilling, offtones and trail off to the useness it was preoccupied with.

They visit him often, these boy's and some fathom girl he's now met with, when the lights are like pitch and discontented tar, and when his window is open, the wind thriving in, drawing the tomato red curtains to a game of Russian roulette outside their attached basis. But when they laugh, as they were designed to do, he sends them away. YES, his highness has had enough. Kindly let me cry to God without you're watching eyes. His mind wanders, and when the rooms are empty without accompanying babbles led from sleep, he falls, like tomorrow, like yesterday, like today. When he goes down, he's crumpled on knees, on arms, breath only coming when he doesn't dare think about it.

And in his opinion, maybe? Isn't God playing with me too much?

There's only

So

Much

Red Paint.

--5--

MOO.