I’ve never known a god,
I don’t even know if god is real.
Church choirs sing the hymns,
Pastors preach the bible,
But there’s so many of them.
Written.
Rewritten.
It’s like the game, Telephone,
We played when we
Were little kids.
The teacher would whisper
A sentence into whoever’s
Ear was to her left or right,
And around the circle it would go,
Reaching whoever was last.
Then they would spew out
The wrong sentence like a geyser
That held words rather than water,
And we’d all laugh because we
Know that it isn’t right.
The teacher would
Tell us what she said,
Then we’d all be upset.
That’s not what I heard.
We’d all think.
And just like Telephone,
All those rewritten
Bibles must’ve gotten
Something wrong
Along the way.
So why am I supposed
To believe
Historical inaccuracies
About a man that
Is allegedly omniscient,
Supposedly righteous,
And theoretically loving of all?
Right now though,
With your hand on my face,
I can see now why people
Hope for a heaven
And a god
And just someone to believe in
Because I can feel
All those things running through
Your fingertips.