Why why why why
I write and try and craft and erect
and hold my peace so long and long
and yet...

Doshite, doshite
I weep and rage and glorify
spinning tapestries to hold the sky
it is not enough.

This is not enough.

~

~

I want to tear away my coverings
to the stars and all humanity
so they can see what they have given me.
I want you to see the scars not healed
all over myself, the blood dripping out
for each poor soul I have heard and absorbed.

For every friend I have helped and lost.
For every penny lost to a paper cup.
For each act of kindness I have ever wrought,
and still it is not enough.
It is not at all wanted.

Christ only has five holes.
I have a million, and yet I am 'whole'.
For they are filled still with steel.

Do you know how it hurts to be something like me?
I know some do.

~

Christ will not help me. Who do you joke?
Can blood wash away more blood? Or doesn't it just
soak the floor with liquid copper?

Christ is dead. God is dead. All of them are.
The Prince of Peace, if he had existed,
died the first time a woman was hurt,
a man lost his wife,
a child cried in agony.
There's the Truth, and no pretty bows.
Yet how much praise will I get, for telling the world this?
How many blind followers of my religion will fawn on me?
I earned each review I got.

~

And even though he's a fairytale, how often I wish
I could just be a fairytale princess.
But I cannot be a living corpse, wandering life
praising that which does not exist
being so pretty, so good, baa baa red red sheep.

So live with it.
And I'll stay shut up,
and won't remind you of my blood.