This Birthday

This was the birthday of those days ours pens peaked
Peeked at the futures we passed off as presents
Present to prove, Our Father he touches
Touches of light burst through us like we’re torches
Torches free styling our words to be bombs
Bums don’t exist here, We all are saints here
Hereby proclaiming we’re grateful for three years
Three ‘yeahs’ for God’s will, this is a punchline
Punchlines aren’t all that when His words don’t punch lines
Lines drawn to separate the sheep from the goaties
Goaties are hoping we don’t see no barbers
Barb as in sharp as the word that we need
Needs that are met when we fill up on God’s word
God’s word the ink, by which our pens speak,
speak of his mercy, peak on this birthday.



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