Delayed reaction
Bitterweet one-note transaction
Turn a blind eye
Voice it in a lie
From compulsive catalogs
Gift-wrapped by mythomaniac hands
Mixing false theories
With hour-glass sands
Because everyone can
And everyone will
Believe the scientific rulebook
And how the high heavens, they shook
So long as it looks pretty
And speaks in a foreign accent
Join hands in singing the praises
Calculating our own descent
Passively uninvolved?
Problem solved...

when I hold
my own hands
My imagination does ensue
they aren't burning
in the cold
and are somehow holding you

And when, away it is you slip, my hands hold tightly still onto
the belief you now know and understand- to me,
What this wickedness did do.
feel it break
a constant ache
construe
when I'm holding my own hands,  
it's to pretend that one's  from you
and to comfort the soul as this life's
suffered through.

If you took from the chalice of immunity-
To be. Forever-
I’d drink-
Immortal with you.

If you died-
Perished untimely
I would lay down one’s life with you-
My life- With you.

The last time I believed in God
I was 6 years old in Sunday school
I asked my teacher why we believed in a man above the clouds
I loved that woman, but her answer wasn't enough
All she was able to say was "Just have faith and the Lord will save you"
Children are simply meant to blindly believe what they are told, but some how I couldn't
I was defected
Because that was the day I stopped believing

The last time I spoke to God
I was 16 and losing sight of who I was
I asked him why he thought he deserved so much credit
For the world he made
A world that self destructs
A world where people find it so hard to breathe they take their life
A world where we can't see ahead of us because the future crumbles before it comes

I asked him why he let his children starve
Why he let them cry at night with no hope to hold on to
Why he let them hurt, shrivel up and die
Why he let them live in poverty

I asked him why I was supposed to have undying love
For a man who doesn't cherish the creation of his own two hands

A father
Who doesn't pay child support
Who doesn't hold his child in his arms
Who doesn't tell them he loves them
Who doesn't put food on the table
Nor a roof over their heads
Who doesn't speak or console
And who leaves his children alone and unprotected
Unsupervised and broken down

If we hold our own human fathers up to this standard, then why don't we hold the father of all responsible for his neglect?

The last time I prayed to God
I wasn't kind
I didn't ask for anything
I simply called him out
If a God truly exists
I hope one day he is put accountable for his crimes
And is punished for his sins

“You’ll be fine…”
Right i’ll be fine with my labels to brag.
With my diploma, undergraduate degree, masters, phd
Under all that, me. I can barely see me-
I’ll be fine but, happiness? Is that in the picture?
Sorry I digress...

Though.
The status quo, they tell us A+ vital,
F is the devil,
Dr label in front of your name makes you capable.

I breathe complex numbers and long words
my blood is A+ and yes, it is something I lust.
For I, in this reality and life need that degree, PHD-
it is vital to me.
Contradicting my dreams?

I am composed

Underneath the layers of clothes I am melting-
but don’t get me wrong I am imploding not exploding for I am-

Composed.

I am composed and in matter of fact I am in control. How do you think I am able to hide under these expressions and ink with such precision and succession.

Composed I hide under the veil of my disguise. My clay face, and I-promise to not disgrace not betray I pray for my clay face to stay and stay it must-

For-
I am composed. I am.

No one told me that clay cracks under heat. Never mind I shall try metal for a mask that way I could bask in all the rays that is imploding heat.

Never exploding you will never be decoding never loading the ideas in my mind that would make me sway to a side make me change my mind for I will not waver.

I am composed.

From timid tap to thud feet come running-
Eyes in the back of necks dare open to the groan
of a grandfather ticking clock, fingers
fingers in fauna twist to turn as dry bones roll within casket homes-
snapping knees and grinding of joins vibrate through floors waking.
Souls-
the crack of a whip hollows out stones as they tip south-
Eyes wide shut.
              Eyes wide shut-
                                                          Eyes

What it means to be full-
To sense the tap of dewdrops on petals
And feel air as a piece of sky. To
bear the torment of expression.
What it means to be full-
To walk from heel to toe.
Knowingly-
We. Us.                                           Human.

We live in deeds,
Not years.
In thoughts,
Not breath.
In feelings,
Not figures on a dial.
Life's but a means unto an end. That end, beginning, mean an end to all things...God.
But if man was God,
He'll set fire to the heavens and make it rain volcanoes on us.
He'll feast on our sins, and evenly dispatch iniquities to the ends of the earth.
Like mushrooms, we would be effortlessly plucked into the bags of his hunters, at the occurrence of a mistake.
If man was God,
Grace would be in yonder, and his commands will hurt our little hearts meant to sojourn in peace.
If man was God, he wouldn't be GOD...
but man isn't GOD.

Written By: Justice Eberechi