Strings

If the wings on my angel are in my mind then maybe the strings are too. Maybe I'm not a puppet played by a sadist since my nascent days up to the latest rage towards whoever the puppet master may be.
Maybe heaven is just a figment of my imagination, a simple conjuration, a dream to help me accept the world is terrible and think it's just a test of my willingness to my subjugation. Accepting that the world is bereft of change and held abreast
Until the end of days when the lamb is reborn and anyone who didn't believe a Jew before computers could predict the future with accuracy, the tenacity, was going to burn for eternity. And somehow the abnormality is in me for thinking, "Hey, maybe that Mary chick was just a w***e."
Maybe, just maybe that "hell" place was a scary story to keep kids in line that worked a little too well. When the children became adults they kept it in mind and fell into the repeating grave of indoctrination that cycled their children in the second they felt the sensation of parenthood.
Maybe some genius took a newborn's story his w***e mother told him "God impregnated me!" and wrote the good old bible. Then he tried to convince me to pay money to an all mighty god while the world suffered in silence because omnipotence is his style.
Its not like the Pope has a gold sceptre or anything, its not like he lives in a castle of diamonds or other bling, or get driven around in a Porsche with a bullet proof box. Apparently he's f*****g afraid to meet his boss.
And if the highest guy in this luni lie is as real as the tooth fairy I might as well say that a guardian angel isn't real either. Fate is the same, and in the heavenly father's name, I snip the strings and fly on my own God damn wings through my own God damn life, because God has no hell over me.