Giving myself odd looks, while trying to even the score—
pointing out my faults like counting sins on abacuses.
Too many to tally, and every action I take I just hope
adds up to something. But I’m outnumbered by myself.

Feels like an inverted midnight— too heavy to be noon.
Doing the most, while barely praying at all— maybe
because doubt multiplies faster than faith settles.

Failures pile up like fractions with no common
denominator— just me, subtracting reasons to believe,
dividing purpose by disbelief, and hoping somehow
I’ll solve it all to find some peace.

Trying to count what I can still hold, not out-of-hand
habits or dust-covered promises. My Bible feels more
antique than answers— pages heavy with silence
until I wiped it off and saw… another layer still
hiding underneath. Like dusk, again. But this time,
I opened it— and let it open me.

Can’t be everyone’s hero—
but it’s so easy to be framed as the villain in someone’s story,
caught in the blur between goodwill and what they believe is ill will,
the wheel spinning from “helpful” to “harmful” without warning.
The sickened influencer—tired of carrying hearts like glass—
now catching cold thoughts, like a mind with influenza,
and I’m wondering: do I get any better at doing the most,
or do I just give less of a **** as the walls I build
crumble beneath the weight of everything I try to hold back?
Does any of it matter, really—at all?

Not everyone will love you like a lover in the honeymoon season—
the moon only glows for a night, and even the sweetest honey dries
when left open too long. And what you think might bring us closer
can become the very thing we learn to hate together.
But maybe in the court of opinion, I’ve become too quick
to cast judgment—forgetting that my sense-of-self
sometimes acts selfish too.

But I’m not standing tall above anyone—I’ve got my own
shortcomings, and none of them come in small doses.
I sin too. Like you, I can act so human, too human, too often.