A Plate in the Head

I’m pretty sure that God still hates us all. Slayer 'Implode'

Mother fears trouble will
poison her ruin of a child

Her torment is me, the woe and the mess
An alarm stewed in sores and strain
A worry sweated with dismay and duress
A flaw and a failure pickled in pain

Father swears scorn will
pleasure his shame of a child

His burden is me, the odor and the stress
A caution pledged with hazard and warning
A toil leased from thieves, loathed in excess
A chance drawn by jeopardy, crossed with mourning

Neighbors pray calm will
plague this misery of a child

Their trespass is me, the slither and the worm
A lure soothed in poison and creep
A fester teased with blisters and sperm
A squirm married to ordeal, drawn from the deep