please don't celebrate my birthday,
it reminds me of what I used to be ...
heaven-sent and blessed by God,
I was perfection in His sight
in rushed the doctor to destroy me ...
a sadistic child-molesting butcher,
he lied to all to get his way ...
he cut my body, carved my soul,
and killed the wonder God had made
not a quick and easy death,
his plan was more destructive ...
I must live each tortured day,
knowing what will never be
the sorrow and the loss I feel,
at the murder of my soul,
renews itself each waking moment
and cuts me fresh again
I dream of death, that I might live ...
for in it's grace, peace will come at last.
I'll rejoin my soul amongst the stars
and God will bless me once again
I do not celebrate my birthday ...
I died the day that I was born
Copyright ©1998 Brian E. Pederson - All Rights Reserved