Never a Question

Never saw retarded ants. Where are they hiding?
Not that I care; they’re insignificant to me.
But sometimes I’m just a retarded ant.
Insignificant and so out of the loop.
Asking questions, so removed from any group.
Asking you, asking me.
Just asking:

Which Jesus are you selling? Which one should I be buying?
Which world am I living in? Why is there so much crying?
Where are we going after our personal hells?
Why are some of my prayers like wishing wells?

Surviving each day brings a smile to my face.
We’re all selling, pimping and whoring.
But sometimes I just feel like breaking down.
Breaking down and lashing out.
Asking questions aloud, for my sanity.
Just asking:

Which agendas are you selling? Why should I believe you?
Should I even praise you? What’ll happen if I don’t?
Who died and made you king? Did your deity teach you how to gloat?
Does redemption mean I can’t cast my own vote?
Why am I happy with myself? Why should I feel blue?
Why do you think I’m cheating on you?
Do you forgive me? Do I care?
Who’s puppeteering this Truth or Dare?
Is there truth to your recycled words?
Are we on the same page? Is your vision just blurred?
Which intrusive rumors have you heard?
Whose is bigger? Who made you come?
How can someone so smart be so distressingly dumb?

Just a retarded ant, asking.
I know some answers, but I’m not sharing.