I feel the eyes stare.

I feel like I don't belong in this pious air.

I feel chastise eyes burn a hell in my back.

I feel like they hate because in holiness I lack.

I feel the scorn that give willingly because I'm an outsider.

They know that my soul isn't as divine.

They know it isn't divine like their soul sublime.

They know I don't sing songs of grace.

They know I don't read their sacred doctrine.

They know I don't belong,

In the building with stained glass, my looking at it is a disgrace.

In the building with the choir who has everything sugar combed.

In the building where its suppose to be His home.

In the building where healing takes place.

In the building of true hell.