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A Distance Away From God


-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.

“As to ‘Why,’ that is…”


-an actual response to that one poem mirrormystic wrote.  Based on the last line, “Why?”  Please note that the material is based on my opinion, not fact.  I do not state the following as fact, nor do I hold it to be fact.  Also that this was basically unprovokedprompted, and I should probably just go back to sticking my head in the sand.


“To be a martyr is better than laying claim to a pride I do not own,”

So says the girl with no confidence.

“To claim ownership to my life

Is to claim ownership of my actions,”

So says the puppet that can’t sever his strings.

“To defend the helpless implies I have the strength to carry on,”

So says the one lying heavy in their bed.

“To care,”

I say,

“Is to lie wounded in the street

As they take off

With yet another rotting piece of your heart.”

But I have to smile.

Because to care,

It gives me life.

A purpose to an otherwise empty existence.

An existence formerly based on rules and mistakes,

Things unchangeable by one such as me,

Whose life holds

Not even the power to vote for the course of my future.

To love

Is to hold someone close to your half-gone heart,

And suddenly, you feel it flutter again.

And you live for this thing that has given you this purpose,

This thing that has your heart.

But your heart was never yours,


Not ever.

And so when you feel it drowning,

Tied to the unbearable weight of

“I can’t do it”


“I can’t help you”

You feel like…no.

I feel like

It’s not worth taking that breath.

To do those things,

To love a life not mine,

It’s safer than to love my own.

Because then,

Then I can feel like I was a part of it.

I have done something,

Something meaningful.

I can admire it from afar,

Or cradle the precious thing in my arms

And half-eaten heart.

But my own life,

Who no one can judge but me,

(And who else could be my harshest critic?)

Nothing will ever be enough,

And I glean no satisfaction from my own joy and happiness.

  • I'm in my father's class at my high school. He said this today:

  • Him:

    As some of you may not know, I'm a feminist.

  • class:


  • Him:

    No, really, I am.

  • Class:

    *laughs again*

  • Him:

    Why is that funny?

  • Asshole:

    Because you're a man, and you shouldn't think that way.

  • Him:

    Well why not?

  • Asshole:

    I dunno that's just the way that is.

  • Him:

    I'm a feminist because of my wife. She and I have the EXACT same job. Yet, I make more than her.

  • Class:


  • Him:

    Why is that funny? Shouldn't women be paid equally as men?

  • Same Asshole:

    No, they're supposed to be in the kitchen.

  • Him:

    *slams fist on asshole's desk* Why?

  • Asshole:

    Because that's how it is.

  • Him:


  • Asshole:

    That's their job.

  • Him:


  • Asshole:

    *can't come up with another answer*

  • Him:

    I'm a feminist because my wife has the exact same job, gets less pay, and with that, I can barely support my three children. If she got paid as much as me, life would be a bit easier for all of us.

  • *note, my mother is a teacher like my father*

  • Him:

    Women gave birth to us, and now, here in the state of Michigan, they can't even have their own rights? It's 2014 people! Grow up or get out of my class.

  • Class:


  • Him:

    Now.. Louis XVI

Honest MBTI Stereotypes


ISTJ: Practical and down-to-earth. Probably your mother.
ISFJ: Always nice enough to be suspicious and more loyal than all your pets combined.
ISTP: Probably don’t care about you, might still kill you in your sleep though.
ISFP: Always carrying at least 4 daisy chains on them at all times; don’t take them to museums if you ever want to come out again.
INTP: That one guy hiding in their room trying to calculate exactly how much bigger the TARDIS is on the inside.
INFP: Starry-eyed idealist, so caring and sweet they might just rot your teeth out.
INTJ: 50% standoffishness, 50% being right all the time, 100% better than you.
INFJ: Spends half their time delivering melodramatic heroic monologues and the other half attempting to purify the ground they walk on.
ESTJ: 100% committed to their life partner, the rulebook.
ESFJ: Happy to make you happy to make them—could potentially create a feeling paradox.
ESTP: Probably Kanye West.
ESFP: The golden retriever you always wanted, except in human form.
ENTP: Would probably blow up the world to calculate shrapnel velocity.
ENFP: Like a bottle of fizzy soda, except with more righteousness.
ENTJ: Like an INTJ, just better at hiding the fact that they’re an asshole.
ENFJ: The world’s mother hen. May also be running ten cults of worship behind your back.

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