Sunday, September 7, 2014

A godless poem


The unbalanced neurons send a shockwave across my being,
I feel every jagged cut.
A blackness.
A coldness.
Another day.
A strong start, but a weak finish.
A good deed, but a wasted hour.
Cut off from the divine source.
I can’t stand it, I want to jump out of my skin!
Where is God?
Busy pleasing corporate men with unimpressive genitals with Bush.
Busy playing golf with Obama.
Too busy to even exist.
I’d break out of this bleeding void, claw the ribbons of this fatalistic tapestry with my bare hands,
if it meant I could see His face.
A glimpse, just a glimpse and, like Bonhoeffer, I’d crawl naked up to the gallows for His glory.
Come, Lord Jesus!

2 comments:

  1. That's some get level crying out! I like how you point out that recognizing and acknowledging our suffering leads to a longing for Jesus to return

    Robby

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    Replies
    1. Thanks, buddy! They say depressed people write good poetry...

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