Banished to wander the Earth
But rebelled to build a City
Babel was temporary, now COVID19
For worship of numbers makes Money, and Man, god.

I can’t help but be a child of Cain
My hands too ****** to be holy
Too stained to be washed clean

I was once told that we are our own thoughts and actions
So does that make me a ****** for being a bad person?
Is that all I’ll ever be?

The sin is strong in me
It’s the sin of not getting better
Of continuing the hurt
Past down, man upon man, wife upon husband, parent upon child, stranger upon stranger
Blood you keep coughing back up
That won’t leave your body

We touch so many people in our lives
But how many do we scar?
It’s human nature to both love and to maul
Especially on those close to us
Especially when we aren’t aware we’re even doing it

Now, I don’t believe in God
This poem isn’t religious in the slightest
But if I met him I would ask
Is Hell the last destination?
Can we ever get better?
Can our hands learn to be tender and to hold instead of trying to choke one another?
Is there still salvation for us, for people like me?

I don’t know what his answer would be
And I don’t think I’d want to find out

Cain killed Abel, for Abel was favoured.
Losers need losers, for then nobody wins.
Rather a robber be king, and all be robbed.
The mark, a small price to despise the favoured.
Why Trump? Because *******! That’s why.

Oh how I knew
that I had too much to do

but instead of doing what needed to be done
I sat around and did none

too many things are on my brain
I almost feel like Cain

but instead of Abel being my brother
I am killing another

another me
a productive we

A me who could see the things to be done
but alas the current me had outrun.

Feathered motivations coated
                  within every layer of
     her distorted refection.

No one will taste the flavours of  
              her contorted thoughts,
everyone coated in delusions...