-A crappy-ass poem inspired by the lovely mirrormystic's poem because, holy frick, he wrote it in May and I missed it. (this is not a response, rather something to vent my own thoughts on this past summer.)
I stare at these holy words on the LCD screen and think,
“When did this become so far from me?”
“When did my heart grow so hard?”
To a rogue, there is no such thing as a god.
To a thief, we are already damned, so why bother?
To a con, the only person to look out for is yourself,
And to those of us in love,
How could this forgiving god tell us we’re wrong?
In the grand scheme of things,
Will the love I give save anyone?
I watch as people compare themselves to
Broken pieces on the floor,
As people destroy themselves because everything is wrong.
I listen as someone wilts,
Because loneliness refuses to fade away.
I watch as the ones who are supposed to help
Sit in their chairs and let the bad stuff happen.
I have nothing to worry about,
So why do I feel my heart pound and face flush,
As a rage boils deep
In my gut?
The ones who kiss crosses,
Who kneel at the floor of overcrowded beds and too-small houses,
Whose fathers work too many hours
And mothers come home critical and tired,
Pray to a God only they can hear,
A God that could move mountains,
If only they had faith the size of a mustard seed.
I listen and cry
Because my friends;
They shouldn’t have to feel this way.
And I ask,
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken them?”
To a rogue, faith is laid in traps and shadows,
To a thief, in the sureness of their fingers.
To a con, the smoothness of their deliberate words,
And to the others,
Their hope for safety.
So I pray to the ceiling
For the deliverance of my friends,
For the prevention of scars and blood and nightmares.
I pray for the ones who pose themselves as living sacrifices,
And I pray for the ones who have already been burned at the altar.
I pray for the ones who need purpose,
For those who need love,
But I am no martyr,
Rather a selfish human who would bet the life of an innocent man
For thirty silver pieces.
Still, I have the audacity to pray to the roof over my head.
We sit there, LCD screen the only light in the darkness,
And wonder what all those written promises mean.
I find salvation not in the holy words printed for sale
But the kind words of a boy who lives a world away
And has more problems than I could ever hope to help.
Yet still, he calls me his light.
In the beating hearts of the ones who pray at the altars,
How much room is in there for another?
In the line of God’s work,
How many of us look forward to doing our job?
Often, the ones who do the most,
Give the most,
Lie in the streets with the least.
The ones made to fight
Hold their swords in stick arms and lackluster armor.
The army of god was never magnificent,
Made of fishermen and widowed women.
It is said that the prayers of the least will be heard,
That the last will be first,
And that suffering builds character.
To a rogue, what good does character do?
To a thief, what good is charity?
To a con, the truth can mean your death,
And to those of us in love,
Courage can become the enemy.
Any wise man,
Prophet or no, can tell you
That love conquers all,
That courage can change the world,
That the truth will set the world free,
And charity can save the lives of the people who suffer as you do.
And sometimes, the rogue must try
To become a knight.
I touch the holy book that cost me $13 dollars
And I turn the pages
That mean so much to my Family and Father.