Painted Flowers

My existence weeps for us. Where is the world that my childhood dreams live in? How do I convince myself to continue to breathe this world's exhale; how long must the line be stretched before it all crushes down on us.

The world's insistence to prove that we are worthy of our gift beyond thee giver, leaves us teaching our innocent that perversion of reality is the secret to acceptance. Truth is so far hidden below the falsehood in the liberalistic message of truth that we are preparing and successfully executing our own drawn-out suicide just to try to prove that we have the right to decide to.

The ultimate prayer is that the world stop spinning before the posture of our morals becomes so slumped under the weight of tolerance that we start painting the flowers for the sake of propitiating the distorted vision of the peccant beholder.