We pretty little saints never had a chance,
pushed down on our wobbling knees
our heads filled with foreign notions
from the moment we began to breathe.

We sang songs to a faceless father
who sits on a gold encased throne.
We were always deemed unworthy,
paying for the crimes of the unknown.

Our questions fell on deaf ears
and we met each eye of judgement
from the self-righteous majority
that held us captive by our throats.

And then the day it came
when we hung up our broken wings.
We freed ourselves from the pressure
that the spiritually dictated life brings.

We aren't rebels without a cause
but a band of worn weary minds
seeking out their own answers
down a road that's quite unkind.
~H. Fields

We pretty little saints…

by hfields90


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