They say the devil’s just a word
for those too weak to face the urge,
a scapegoat shaped from fear and shame,
a stain they blame, then speak his name.
They praise the pure, the clean, the saved,
while knees all knock at what they crave.
They call it sin with holy breath
and shake with want like flirting death.
Who dares condemn the heat inside,
the pulse that proves we’re still alive?
If lust’s the spark that makes us burn,
why curse the fire yet beg its turn?
Desire knocks, then asks for more,
it feeds the need it fed before.
It swears it’s love, delivers lack,
then leaves you reaching or empty sack.
I walk through streets of gilded ash,
where saints keep ledgers of their stash.
They trade in grace like minted gold
and hide their hungers, bought and sold.
They shame the flesh, deny the ache,
then sin by night for virtue’s sake.
By day they point, by dark they plead,
pretend they’re saints, behave like need.
Old doctrines whisper, thin as thread:
Fear the devil, bow your head.
But chains are light when truth is near
they’re forged from silence, not from fear.
Who names the line of right and wrong
when we’re stitched crooked all along?
A life of rules we break to live,
then beg forgiveness to forgive.
They warn of hell and devil’s kin,
but never count their favorite sin,
their pride, their greed, their secret feasts,
their holy wars with private beasts.
So maybe hell’s not down below,
nor heaven somewhere we don’t go.
Maybe the devil’s just the hour
we drop the lie and feel the power.
And there I stand, without disguise,
no hymns, no shame, no alibis.
Judge me if you need the thrill
your shouts are louder
than your will.
Jan 7
Jan 7, 2026 at 1:26 PM UTC
They say the devil’s just a word
for those too weak to face the urge,
a scapegoat shaped from fear and shame,
a stain they blame, then speak his name.
They praise the pure, the clean, the saved,
while knees all knock at what they crave.
They call it sin with holy breath
and shake with want like flirting death.
Who dares condemn the heat inside,
the pulse that proves we’re still alive?
If lust’s the spark that makes us burn,
why curse the fire yet beg its turn?
Desire knocks, then asks for more,
it feeds the need it fed before.
It swears it’s love, delivers lack,
then leaves you reaching or empty sack.
I walk through streets of gilded ash,
where saints keep ledgers of their stash.
They trade in grace like minted gold
and hide their hungers, bought and sold.
They shame the flesh, deny the ache,
then sin by night for virtue’s sake.
By day they point, by dark they plead,
pretend they’re saints, behave like need.
Old doctrines whisper, thin as thread:
Fear the devil, bow your head.
But chains are light when truth is near
they’re forged from silence, not from fear.
Who names the line of right and wrong
when we’re stitched crooked all along?
A life of rules we break to live,
then beg forgiveness to forgive.
They warn of hell and devil’s kin,
but never count their favorite sin,
their pride, their greed, their secret feasts,
their holy wars with private beasts.
So maybe hell’s not down below,
nor heaven somewhere we don’t go.
Maybe the devil’s just the hour
we drop the lie and feel the power.
And there I stand, without disguise,
no hymns, no shame, no alibis.
Judge me if you need the thrill
your shouts are louder
than your will.
7 January 2026
Confessions of the ******
This is a old poem I wrote
