For I have seen the face of ***-- eyes averted, looking away. He does not want to see what my child's eyes have seen, does not want to know of what hands have known my skin.

He is ashamed in the way of those who have born witness to some awful deed and not done all that they could do to stop it. If it is not within ***'s power or agenda to help a child, what great *** can he be?

Even the Devil, in his wickedness, does not deign to save a child from pain not deserving to a little girl. If this is the truth of the world-- that horrid, preventable evils may occur to the most innocent amongst us-- then truly, how merciful can this *** be?

What point is there in striving to be by the side of a *** who is so callous, so uncaring-- why deify such a cruel being? Perhaps he is out there, indeed it is likely, but I want no part of him-- he does not want me, tainted as I am.

He disowned me that night when he turned away from my desperation, my cry for help. If he does not want me for what was done to me, so be it-- I do not want him either.

When I arrive outside of his Pearly Gates, he will fall to his mighty knees and beg my forgiveness. I do not think that I will give it.

Spear of life, crown of virtue,
blood relaxed on slab of hate.
To the wind, in raised agony,
metal shards crush bone and fate.
There the light, the helmets glint,
forsaken he, in hour of shame.
But never bowed, in half life saved,
to the skies, and not the flame.
Parched soul, but never succour,
bitter taste of blood and brine.
Feels the tug, the Lords right seat,
one last breath, now is the time.
His spirit flees, mountain cracks,
from quaking mighty land and whence,
his body gone, neath tomb of stone,
to rise again in three days hence.

Dear nature stutters to a start,
and warmth fills in the cracks.  
The heart no longer seeps with cold.
The core's no longer black.

So on a twirl of leaf and grass,
and other things that grow.
There came to life a living thing,
which melted all the frost and snow.

He rose upon a starlit night
and wandered with a stutter.
As trees gave bloom, and flowers sang.
Water flowed, mountains muttered.

All wilted things, each drew new breath,
and gloried in this sight.
A godly host. Powerful spirit.
And lit all things with natural light.

He fashioned bird, and crafted beast,
and said that it was good.
He hollowed out the very stars,
crafted every glade and wood.

Then in the last, he blew a breath,  
and from the very sand.
A form with legs and arms there grew,
and this he labelled man.

This senseless self-preoccupation
sends me straight to ****
and I can’t tell if it’s your fault or mine
it’s fine either way, I’m not sure I care at this point
I’m just tired of every piece of my life feeling so painfully out of joint
my heart conjoined with assumed opinions and criticism that even Satan would call excessive

And I push you away like you put this on me
that you expect me to be just like everybody else
or maybe that perspective veils the reality that I know I was made for more than this
******* away my time and energy worrying about if I measure up to what you expect of me

I mean, you want me to look like your firstborn son
how can I even begin to measure up to that after everything I’ve done?
or at least this is the tape I run repeatedly in my head
And in a way it’s like I dread hearing anything besides it
because if I hear a different sound
I’m bound to bigger responsibility and I’m pushed to the brink

And I find myself sinking beneath the terrible thought that you’re disappointed in me
That you find me disgusting and can’t wait to be rid of me
But while I’m making self-pity my revelry I so often fail to see the devilry of my thoughts
not catching that I’m thinking way more highly of my brokenness than I ought
and we’ve fought over this more times than I can count,

I know.

***, how many more times do you have to show me that the way I think just doesn’t work?
How many more times will you remind me I’m not loved because it’s earned?
That your firstborn took on the curse that I deserved
I’ve read and heard the story a thousand times
even though I forget it at the drop of a dime
so remind me again, I don’t have to try so hard
to be the son you want and that...

you’re not nearly as far away from me as I think you are

This is more then just a love letter
Because you did more then just love me
This is more then just a confession
You remember the first impression
I gave you?
When they said I find no guilt in this man
I made you guilty
Not worthy of your mercy
But now here I stand
With no nails in my hands
You were the dove dipped in black paint that became a black crow
For the price of my soul
You are the example of fixing something that was never broken because you fixed something you never broke in
So for that,
This is more then just a love letter
It's my soul returning back to the sender
It's my heart exchanging my blood for yours
This is more then just a confession
This is me saying you  my attention
This is me saying im breaking all connection from all distraction
This is me taking action.
After all I've been through
I hold your words to he true
This is me giving up me
For You.

were you warm when the lights faded out?
was it just how you wanted it?

when the golden hour comes
and the dullest corners come to life
I search for you

can you hear me?
did you think you could pray your way out?

when your mind stopped racing
I hope you were clutching those beads
studying the heavens

did you find it?
do you now know the solace
that I never will?

Socialism; practicing Christianity.
Economic disparity; Capitalism.
Economic equality; Communism.
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