According to the gospel
As the lord and savior traversed the holy land
Preaching the word and showing the light
Speaking with god and devil alike
Speaking love to mankind
It is said
He would find the sick
The suffering of infirmity
He would lay his hands to their skin
And heal them
He would heal them
According to the gospel

My days are long
And I have bruises that don't show on my flesh
Impracticalities that should cause mental maladies
That would help me find the self destruction I fear
And that I fear awaits me
I'm tired when I wake up
And dead through the day
But I feel alive
Every time I put my words to the page
I feel a sage
Whose wisdom is generational
I feel hope

I may be sick
Maybe
I may be a lost and tortured soul unfit to exist
In this existence
Maybe
I may feel pain
I may
And the only disease I know is the brutality of life
Maybe

Poetry heals me
It is the hands in the desert
On the ***** in the cave
It is the words as rain to feed the seed
It is the sprout of a flower
And the bloom
It is my reason
And my religion

It is my gospel

And when the angels sing
If no one else can hear but I can
I'll know of peace
In a world of disarray