The Book, The Music, My Life

I pray the rosary.

It was recommended so a simpy

by some man in robes claiming he represents the Holy.

But he didn't have an actual answer for me.

Instead he insists to have faith, keep praying.

While each bead is prayed so ritualistically.

Unanswered because "god works i mysterious ways".

Will this bring my mom back? Prevent the cancer attack

wih took her from me?

Life doesn't work that easy,

With this tongue twister of empty hope,

I feel so alone like the word I pray are just a joke.

I put myself in your presence every Sunday,

surrounded by glass visions of pain and suffering,

But unlike the others in attendance here,

they don't scare me into staying.

I'm told the words I listen to, they just pull me away.

And I guess my songs are corrupting the youth?

As far as I'm concerned they're more real than you.

The sermon might change, but you never do.

At least others can connect to my story,

they actually happened; not some fable masked by glory.

Yours was shoved down my throat,

as if it wasn't already covered in enough blood and spit.

I've tried to be closer, but you probably don't remember it.

Some of my people sing about lust and blood,

but yours are made to drink it (or so they claim).

Some of my fans, they'd open their veins

in self-loathing, to beautiful things they were  blind

I'd convince them to stop and open their minds,

while yours are tricked into opening their wallets,

praying, paying,

so faithful to a god they'll soon forget.

Cause once the storm passes, everything is fine,

they need not give you any more of their time.

Yes, there's violence in my words, but

it's not a part of my history like yours.

Slit wrists criticized, yet bear remarkable resemblance

to the suffering worn around god-fearer's neck

Both devices of torture, sacrifice and death,




Look at me, oh, money in the plate,

I'm Holy.

We're loud,

we scream

but we unite.

I 'm not phased by those who  judge or reject me,

but you get mad at the non-believers and threaten to smite.

Do you teach us a lesson, or kill just for fun?



It's all global abortion.

I want to see you Lord, I really do.

But when I look around

I don't see you.





This poem is about: 
My community
Our world


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