This isn't my home,
Along with the other restless souls,
Though wandering gets me closer,
To what feels whole.

What kind of God tells you how to love?
Even though your body knows different.
Your inner voice says,
'Condemned by an invention, '
Deprived of your spirit's light,
Eroding away what feels right.

Let me tell you,
Evil does not persist nor persuade,
It's a trait,
That we all possess.

There is no hell that awaits,
Just the one that we create,
In our heads...

Cheyenne Rhon

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-our-heads/