blessed are they who are left behind, for theirs is the kingdom of sorrow

the only omniscient  thing in this world is my sad, drunken state

God cannot possibly  be real, because why would he desert me? i turned my life into a song of prayer to Him

but my song has become a wilted requiem and i see no proof of heaven

i cry out in the chapel abandoned and scream into the confessional, all the names of my sins and i beg for forgiveness

my priest is afraid of me. when i cried onto his white sleeves-- too pure for me-- when i cried out he whispered that God had yet to create a prayer that would absolve me, that there weren't enough Hail Mary's in the world to reconcile my broken bits

so i sit in the pew and i let my tears fall to the stone floor in hopes that the salt will burn a hole that'll lead me to hell

because clearly i don't belong here, not where a man on a wooden cross is staring down blankly and not helping

deep down, deeper down than hell, i know in my battered heart and fickle soul that no matter what, i believe

faith is what has kept me alive through thick and thin, through threadbare afternoons and thorny thoughts and were i to give up now, to give in to an assault of cynicism and disbelief, i would fall (and faith is the only thing that kept me on my feet anyway)

so i walk a hypocritical tightrope: how do i question everything and remain devoted? is my trust in my faith really my own, or do i have generations of guilt-dishing irish catholics to credit? am i religious or just spiritual?

and i teeter, and the tempestuous winds blow at me, and i lose my footing