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aaron-combsPoems
It’s hard to heal in the dark— not candle-dark, but phone-screen midnight, where faces glow ghost-white and silence hums only twisted electric. Peace feels a layered lawyers words. Hope seems like carrot stick that never sticks. Love seems like a lying vain dream. Faith is just a buzz word for lazy sermons. The self-absorbed are muscular and freely rude, while the generous are taxed and are robbed - are you familiar to all their paths? is the path upward just calculated by grace, an inheritance of sorts, while the uphill climb can't be heard by faith. Do you number our hairs of our head, while you see the mutations of my friends cancer? Do You let the shameless only fans bloom in neon while the ashamed kneel in alleyways? Gold drips from penthouse windows, while perfume and prophets stain the air. Meanwhile, single mothers fold red notices, and the construction worker gets stiffed by another investor, where kitchen drawers are filled with unpaid bills. Do you control the tongue of the learned - or heal the lights and serpents in a woman's eyes, are the wolves of the world, are only cold ruthless men? are the poor wicked too, just better at lying and doing nothing about it. Did you shape the desire of both ? Does this concern you? Is everything under control, my dear king or does freedom only look good in the movies? Is the struggle and cycle of lust, greed, the control and curse forever? Can you not be king of all the families of the world and the good? Or did it end when baby boomers stopped singing in the pews? Are we just eroding, do you not want to save us before we need saving. Are you proactive parent of creation or do you wait for us to fall, so it's easier to gain control, wisdom and influence? Do you shape the muscle of the thirsty - can you not choose a new holy way - are you not a God of creativity and creation - can you influence more than instagram and the latest tool and tax? What is fire if we cannot see flesh and skin? Did You design desire this loud— hips held in violet light, skin polished bronze and pink, men bending like wheat under the scythe of every beauty - Does divorce happen because you cannot keep a couple in love? Are you not the God of infinite wisdom? Free will is the way we live and love, but do you shape a woman's heart when she says I want to leave - or when a man feels alone and feel tempted to cheat? Did you not mold, carve and shape them both? Now look did we turn hunger and desire into a cathedral? The rich inherit brick and ivy. We inherit drywall and debt. Boomers sit on porches painted white; while we hang from fifty-year mortgages like laundry in a black and white wind. Does money only answer to cold hands? Does it slip past the calloused ones? Can I break into heaven’s classroom, steal a jar of crystal water, run through Atlanta pouring it into cracked sidewalks, into chemo rooms that smell of bleach and tired prayers? You said love the stranger. But borders harden like concrete. You said feed the poor. But grocery carts scrape half-empty through fluorescent aisles and inflated pricing. Are You stronger than the foundations, systems we baptized are seen as normal? Or do You watch Wall Street flicker green while hospital monitors flicker red? Like an eagle cutting a bruised sky, I won’t lie about how broken I feel— my chest tight as a locked church door, my thoughts circling like sirens in the distance. Church smiles stretch thin as plastic. Sunday Ten a.m. coffee cup verses, steams less than a hit of smoke and addiction. Still, my mother’s wounds and resentment beneath her skin venomously take her life away As an old cross hangs wooden and still— yet it did not hold my family together. The rich stack gold in climate-controlled cars. The poor stack exhaustion in dim apartments where paint peels in pale curls. happy families are never take time for the broken, just two minute prayers, and sandwhiches in the city, is this God's power of the church? You caused Paul fall to blindness. You churned Jonah in saltwater black. You gave Job back double after ash and boils. But Are You still that Almighty God— or have we outpaced Your thunder and anger? Can You flood New York’s marble floors? Can You rattle Atlanta’s glass towers? Or do You only whisper to the already broken gentle, are modern pharoahs now stronger than your hand? My friends are tired of being almost okay. Their laughter cracks. Their eyes dull amber. They grind their teeth through night shifts and swallow pride with cheap nicotine and liquor. I want miracles that bruise the headlines. I want mercy that interrupts stock markets. Not luck dressed up in gold trim— not blessing that smells like inheritance. If You are truth, why does it splinter in our palms? When heaven leans toward earth, why does the air stay cold? Are you not the God of light, timing, and brilliance - while the skilled at heart have cold kitchens, bruised families, while darkness taste like sugar to our youth. Can you not influence the broken and the arrogant? Do you not want to teach the teachers, heal the sermons. Are you not concerned with the quality of people? Do you blend breath without panic, crosses without chains, love without issues, order without constant struggle ? Are you in a different department Lord, like an owner - but working with tools 2000 years behind. If You heal the fallen— could you heal them loudly? If we are ungrateful can you not incentivize a contrite heart, so we may find you again and again. If we are lost, do you hunt us down. If I am blind, would you tear open my eyes. Why does growth bleed? Why does learning taste like iron? If we are light on a hill, why do we glow so faint— as small porch bulbs in a city of blazing advertisements? Before I close this prayer— answer in thunder or in silence, but answer. Tell me there is a future not pawned for profit. Tell me we are not smoke rising from our own ruin. I want to feel alive— not scrolling, not surviving— alive. Like a flower forcing itself through cracked cement, petals silvered in moonlight, reaching anyway. If You meet my eyes at sunrise, they will be rimmed red. I fell long ago. I am still searching through gray mornings for something gold. And still— through doubt, through neon, through debt and dust— I reach for the cross like a man reaching through smoke for air.
0
Mar 27, 2025
Mar 27, 2025 at 9:09 PM UTC
Neon Screams
It’s hard to heal in the dark— not candle-dark, but phone-screen midnight, where faces glow ghost-white and silence hums only twisted electric. Peace feels a layered lawyers words. Hope seems like carrot stick that never sticks. Love seems like a lying vain dream. Faith is just a buzz word for lazy sermons. The self-absorbed are muscular and freely rude, while the generous are taxed and are robbed - are you familiar to all their paths? is the path upward just calculated by grace, an inheritance of sorts, while the uphill climb can't be heard by faith. Do you number our hairs of our head, while you see the mutations of my friends cancer? Do You let the shameless only fans bloom in neon while the ashamed kneel in alleyways? Gold drips from penthouse windows, while perfume and prophets stain the air. Meanwhile, single mothers fold red notices, and the construction worker gets stiffed by another investor, where kitchen drawers are filled with unpaid bills. Do you control the tongue of the learned - or heal the lights and serpents in a woman's eyes, are the wolves of the world, are only cold ruthless men? are the poor wicked too, just better at lying and doing nothing about it. Did you shape the desire of both ? Does this concern you? Is everything under control, my dear king or does freedom only look good in the movies? Is the struggle and cycle of lust, greed, the control and curse forever? Can you not be king of all the families of the world and the good? Or did it end when baby boomers stopped singing in the pews? Are we just eroding, do you not want to save us before we need saving. Are you proactive parent of creation or do you wait for us to fall, so it's easier to gain control, wisdom and influence? Do you shape the muscle of the thirsty - can you not choose a new holy way - are you not a God of creativity and creation - can you influence more than instagram and the latest tool and tax? What is fire if we cannot see flesh and skin? Did You design desire this loud— hips held in violet light, skin polished bronze and pink, men bending like wheat under the scythe of every beauty - Does divorce happen because you cannot keep a couple in love? Are you not the God of infinite wisdom? Free will is the way we live and love, but do you shape a woman's heart when she says I want to leave - or when a man feels alone and feel tempted to cheat? Did you not mold, carve and shape them both? Now look did we turn hunger and desire into a cathedral? The rich inherit brick and ivy. We inherit drywall and debt. Boomers sit on porches painted white; while we hang from fifty-year mortgages like laundry in a black and white wind. Does money only answer to cold hands? Does it slip past the calloused ones? Can I break into heaven’s classroom, steal a jar of crystal water, run through Atlanta pouring it into cracked sidewalks, into chemo rooms that smell of bleach and tired prayers? You said love the stranger. But borders harden like concrete. You said feed the poor. But grocery carts scrape half-empty through fluorescent aisles and inflated pricing. Are You stronger than the foundations, systems we baptized are seen as normal? Or do You watch Wall Street flicker green while hospital monitors flicker red? Like an eagle cutting a bruised sky, I won’t lie about how broken I feel— my chest tight as a locked church door, my thoughts circling like sirens in the distance. Church smiles stretch thin as plastic. Sunday Ten a.m. coffee cup verses, steams less than a hit of smoke and addiction. Still, my mother’s wounds and resentment beneath her skin venomously take her life away As an old cross hangs wooden and still— yet it did not hold my family together. The rich stack gold in climate-controlled cars. The poor stack exhaustion in dim apartments where paint peels in pale curls. happy families are never take time for the broken, just two minute prayers, and sandwhiches in the city, is this God's power of the church? You caused Paul fall to blindness. You churned Jonah in saltwater black. You gave Job back double after ash and boils. But Are You still that Almighty God— or have we outpaced Your thunder and anger? Can You flood New York’s marble floors? Can You rattle Atlanta’s glass towers? Or do You only whisper to the already broken gentle, are modern pharoahs now stronger than your hand? My friends are tired of being almost okay. Their laughter cracks. Their eyes dull amber. They grind their teeth through night shifts and swallow pride with cheap nicotine and liquor. I want miracles that bruise the headlines. I want mercy that interrupts stock markets. Not luck dressed up in gold trim— not blessing that smells like inheritance. If You are truth, why does it splinter in our palms? When heaven leans toward earth, why does the air stay cold? Are you not the God of light, timing, and brilliance - while the skilled at heart have cold kitchens, bruised families, while darkness taste like sugar to our youth. Can you not influence the broken and the arrogant? Do you not want to teach the teachers, heal the sermons. Are you not concerned with the quality of people? Do you blend breath without panic, crosses without chains, love without issues, order without constant struggle ? Are you in a different department Lord, like an owner - but working with tools 2000 years behind. If You heal the fallen— could you heal them loudly? If we are ungrateful can you not incentivize a contrite heart, so we may find you again and again. If we are lost, do you hunt us down. If I am blind, would you tear open my eyes. Why does growth bleed? Why does learning taste like iron? If we are light on a hill, why do we glow so faint— as small porch bulbs in a city of blazing advertisements? Before I close this prayer— answer in thunder or in silence, but answer. Tell me there is a future not pawned for profit. Tell me we are not smoke rising from our own ruin. I want to feel alive— not scrolling, not surviving— alive. Like a flower forcing itself through cracked cement, petals silvered in moonlight, reaching anyway. If You meet my eyes at sunrise, they will be rimmed red. I fell long ago. I am still searching through gray mornings for something gold. And still— through doubt, through neon, through debt and dust— I reach for the cross like a man reaching through smoke for air.
honest prayers
#2026#blood#thirsty#prayers
aaron-combs
Written by
aaron-combs
28/M
Mar 27, 2025
Mar 27, 2025 at 9:09 PM UTC
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