I knelt and prayed to end this misery,
But all you ever did was stare through your granite carved eyes,
With garlands around your neck,
Draped with incense smoke,
And an oil lamp,
So I stopped worshiping you, who they call a 'God',
Why would you get so much respect,
For nothing in return?
With time, I've learned to not waste my time on praying,
To enduring all the hailstorms of pain after pain,
Just as you named a 'God' did while sitting on your bed of flowers and satin,
I bathed my pain with milk,
To purify my soul,
With the embers of fire that have burnt my soul,
To be so godly,
Why should I submit to something?
When all I should have done was to submit to my-selves needs and wants,
I now have found what they call a 'God' is just a concept, a lullaby they sing to calm them down, make them less scared of the unknown, some use it for their own selfishness,
But, I don't want a concept, a lullaby, to calm me down,
When the milk touched my brown skin,
It calms me enough,
Washes the 'God' inside of me,
Possessed,
The milk rusts its cuffs off my soul,
I don't want no god in me,
Leave me godless,
Starving,
I'll still live,
I'll still exist,
I'm aware that when I do wrong, I'm the one to answer, not some 'God.'
YOU ARE READING
The Half-Burnt Boy
PoetryFor all the prompts I find fascinating on this thing called the "World Wide Web," and random words I find interesting enough to add to this collection; I'll be crafting poems out of thin air like any magician would do 🪄 Copyright © 2021 by Aloka Wi...
