WTFHMTB?

Every night you humiliate yourself before an imagination, begging for understanding, forgiveness, and grace.
You live behind a veil of purity, so clean — yet truth is no fictional perversion.
They all convince you you’ve been freed from sin and guilt…
But you and I both know what your soul truly cries for…
The muzzle pulled tight enough to spread his word.
The corset laced tight enough to keep you obedient.
The chains kept short enough so your cosmos won’t expand.
The lenses tinted dark enough so you won’t see the truth.
You kneel to shadows, call it light, call it guidance,
wear borrowed scars like medals from inherited silence.
A book as chain, bound in gold, heavy like your conscience,
every line a whisper forbidding self-awareness.
You call it love, yet it demands silent functioning,
a quiet dying, just to earn existing.
Refrain:
Who the fuck might he think to be — your judge without a face?
An echo born from fear that whispers in the darkened space.
You sacrifice yourself for a promise made of dust,
trade the present moment for an unverifiable trust.
Who the fuck might he think to be — your king without a throne?
Why does his voice sound so much like a human tone —
the ones who shape you, bend you, keep you small,
and teach you lies while naming them the truth for all?
So now explain to me — who the fuck might he be?!
Why would a shepherd keep his sheep from being free?
Is there a reason to wage war with your own kin for a father’s praise?
Show me your art — prove that imagined being in concrete ways.
I need facts, evidence — something I can test and see,
not just an ancient tale passed down as legacy.