Selling God in a Gimp Mask

godinamask

falseprophetWhen we were children
The only time he used the word “holy”
Was when it was to be followed by the word “shit.”
He has Jesus now.
The kind of Jesus that has him on street corners
Reminding people there’s a God,
And mostly,
He’s pretty pissed.

But

If you sign up now,
Buy all the bullshit he offers you
(about his Jesus)
Then you’re going to be okay,
Mostly.
(don’t mind the small print.)

He sells the same cookie cutter holy shit we ran from.
Ignorant of the irony.
Nothing more than a cult leader looking for a cult.
Souled out and needing to be worshipped.
He is every reason I walked away from BDSM Jesus.
My ass can’t take that shit.

bldspltterHe gathers up for himself
A flock of the witless
To witness the God in him;
Whips,
Chains,
And all.

Handing out pamphlets and halos,
He has made himself a prophet
Proclaiming dead gods.
Feeding his flock
The flesh of all who deny him,
And all who oppose him.

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The Point of Honesty: A Poem

apollyon

Author’s Note: This poem is a bit of a divergence. More autobiographical than made up horror. I have been silent over the last few weeks due to an overwhelming depression and numbness. I am trying to break free of that state. Please enjoy the following poem.

“When I learned to love myself, to accept all the broken parts, the ghosts of my past could no longer bind me; could no longer hold me in so much stagnant water. I was at last free.”
-Basil Fish

AngelIt has taken me years to write these lines with any honesty. Over a decade of internal warfare, wrestling demons, letting go of lies and bullshit, to finally look into the mirror without hate. Without contempt.

It feels like I’m putting the pieces back together, but in truth I’m putting my life together. I’m peeling away dead skin and uprooting the deeply sunken in bitter roots which ran my life in cycles of hurt and recovery; hurt and recovery; hurt and recovery.

The scar tissue is no longer shame, but beautiful. A road map of origin and destinations; and I am going places.

I had to learn to love myself. I had to learn to see me as God sees me. Eyes filled with grace and forgiveness. Compassionate and filled with purpose. Loving for love’s sake.

This love has poured out into the lives of the hurting. Given strength to those who could no longer walk; sight to those who refused to see. Manifested itself in the form of forgiveness for them and for me.

Them. They told me what their god expected of me. When I couldn’t fit that cross shaped box, I was shamed, and I lived that shame. Calvary Chapel, that church on the hill where they crucified the unworthy over and over again.

The weight of their nails heavier than a father’s distance and iron fists. I couldn’t let that shit go. My grip ruined me. Drove me to deepest hate. Sent me on a journey of journal entries filled with verse and passage sworn to unwrite myself.

But God.

Snatched me away like a thief in the night.

Took captive my grip that I might finally let go.

When I learned to love myself, to accept all the broken parts, the ghosts of my past could no longer bind me; could no longer hold me in so much stagnant water. I was at last free.

I am at last free.

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The Ghost and Her Burden

ghostswing
ghostfoglostSomewhere between who she had once been
And who she ought be
Rested who she was.
Flickering in and out of existence
Like the rolling of static over dead airwaves.
A sense of falling and rising and falling again.

A wave tossed about the ocean.
A cloud lead by wind.
A blink of an eye in time and space.
Rattled to her bones.
She could not comprehend solid ground.
The world seem to constantly shift beneath her feet;
Changing and obscuring itself
In the swirling white of a tule fog.

Drifting between where she had once been
And where she ought be
Was her present.
Her place in uncertainty.
The burden born upon her shoulders.
Carried alone.

 

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Spirit Guide

dreamsandillusions

lightinthedarkIt’s a sword
Drawn in the dark
A spark
To ignite a flame
Fire to guide you
To awaken
The limitless power within you.

I
Have traveled as far
As I ought go.
I’ve seen
The faintest glow.
Now run.
Into the bright
Of a new day.

This dark,
This hard dark,
Is my cell.
My cage.
Where demons lay slain.
And lost souls,
Are shown the way.

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Bedsheets and Canyons

scars

scary artI know these bedsheets can’t hide my canyons,
Like I know that the flatlines of this silence
Will never cover the peaks of all this static.
Like I know you’ll never hear the high pitch hum
That robs me of all the potential of peaceful quiet.

I know that you’ll never understand why I use candles
To carve your name across the length of my arms.
Or why I stare at all these photographs
With stars falling from my eyes.
Or why I push so far away from your outstretched welcome sign

Maybe I’m afraid of getting what I’ve always wanted.
Maybe I’m afraid of taking what I’ve always needed.
Maybe I’m afraid that the moment I find comfort,
You’ll leave me.
Or lead me into that downward spiral
Where my heart is a poorly played sport.

I wonder if you know that I still hide under my blankets;
I’m still terrified of the dark.
I believe that there are monster under my bed,
Mostly hiding,
Mostly afraid of becoming like me.
Mostly I wonder if maybe I should join them,
But I’m not sure I can fit in a closet full of skeletons.

On most days I stare into the mirror and pray
That people won’t see my breaking.
That I can keep up the play at keeping it all together.
And I forget to understand
That bedsheets will never hide these canyons.

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Covered Mirror

reflection

uglyWe are sick to death.
To death,
And breathless.
Holding in our hearts.
Guarded,
Like the cast iron gates
With which we surround ourselves.
Unable To let each other in.

We stretch miles
From inches of indifference.
Blind  ourselves
And sear our conscience
With red hot coals
Burning lukewarm with apathy.
We leave holes in our souls,
Filling the void
With distractions.

Maybe this
Is why we’ve covered
Every mirror in our homes
With digitally enhanced photographs,
Portraying ourselves in perfect light,
So we might
Never see
The ugly we’ve become.
Or,
Are becoming.

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Codependency

recreatelove

recreatedloveBreak me down.
Drag me across the wreckage
Of every hate filled memory.
Ruin me.

Cut me with every word,
Gnawed between teeth,
Until there is nothing left
Of the me you knew.

Rebuild me.
Rewrite our history,
Until I am nothing more
Than a villain on the page.

Speak me into the folds of monsters,
Until you find me
Hiding in your closet;
Creeping under your bed.

Make of me
Every evil that befalls you.
Object and idol of your hate.
The center of your rage.

If it makes you better,
I will be the cup
Into which
You pour your wrath.

I love you.
After all this,
I love you.

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