I’m a foreclosure of thought
Wrapped within the underside of a four-leaf clover
Hoping that one day you’d call me when you’re sober.

Your confusion is
Thinking I’m a simple man,
That I can’t see the schism
Knowing where the pieces fit
In the cracks of your halo
Where the horns protrude ever so slightly.

So cut me,
I’ll wait and bleed,
Would it make you happy?
To use your construction paper heart
Ripped from my chest, torn into parts
Beating upon your plate of misery, chop suey.

Watch as I fade
Seeing red again,
And even if I send the pain below
I know, deep down, you whisper
“I wish you were here.”
Well, pardon me…
But I hope you burn,
And out there in the stellar stars
I hope you find a tourniquet
To patch your deadened soul,
As you plead, “bring me to life”.

Will the answer come?
An ace of spades, to get you out of hell?
Back in black, abyssal, endless
So one last serenade, as you fall for me
The night does not belong to god.

I sit before you all today,
Christ deformed on a cross of
Whitman and Eliot and Plath.
You all surround me with your helmets lined with blood stained papers of past battles,
stabbing, tearing, poking and maiming at my ribs with your #2 pencils and ball point pens.
You mark me up, carving me up in red and black for all the mistakes I have apparently made.
You belch out how you would have done it, how it could be better. Why does that matter?
I hang here now, dreading it all.
Gazing at my heavenly home,
I start to ask, “Father, why do I
have to make them love me?
Can’t I just exist and be free?”
And God thunders down to me,
“Sometimes, son, being imperfect
is what makes you too perfect.”
And with his words, I purge myself
of all of the scars and judgment,
and I am born once again, anew.