You sit in the church through Sunday mass and question your existence looking around you see secrets in everyone's eyes but there is no key to be seen, for they are the only key to their forbidden secrets you ask yourself do they need healing, someone to love them, salvation, a god to look up to for comfort in hard times .you always found it funny and unsettling about how the preacher barks out word knowing he did a good job aiming a knife at your beating heart, you refuse to be a dog on a electric leash you refuse to believe such a thing, that's write as good but is portrait as black and white with drips of red, The shaking in your bones, trembling in your lips brain wash you think almost believing your parents are, every time you think you found comfort knowing who you truly are. knowing god sees your flesh and blood as the same walking beings on the streets you distance yourself more and more thinking you don't fit into the churches doors, some people sit in the church with a lonesome emptiness hidden beneath their table cloth. While some use religion to manipulate others while they laugh you cry in silence, knowing damn well what they do at night. A mother bird with baby birds giving her every penny, every green dollar in the churches basket just to lay in her squeaking bed, because the church doesn't hears her aching cries No money to buy pampers or wipes.
The pastor who barks out Bible scriptures like venoms snake just to go home to his wife driven by madness his fist in contact with her face blue, black and red his knuckles dose the painting while she screams on till her throat runs dry, he doesn't stop at that a shooting pain in her stomach the burning of her skin, shes alive yet inside her is dead still he doesn't stops. Hell has a special place for undercover demons like you. The girl who judges so much have been judge all her life insecure she is sits under the roof with a tight lipped smile, The little boy who's was told by his father he's no man for he cries so much and his feminine ways. "How dose one becomes less of a man if they cry mother?" The little girl ask as she watches away from a far in her school uniform,as small as she is, she feels what the boy feels .The old man with a bushy gray and white beard, sit on a the porch drinking whiskey from a bottle, as he people-watch the rusty clock in his bedroom ticks counting his time. The old soul who sits with kids her age she dose not relate just there to fill the space, because she dose not relate a free sprit she is at heart and a old soul she has They don't understand her views because they don't relate either.
-ashes poetry
Edit :Damn this one was probably the longest poetry I wrote lol hope y'all enjoy if you read it
No hard feelings if you didn't.
