Sunday, July 27, 2014

Sympathy for the Creator.

I hear of these people talking to God,
Artists, politicians, writers,
I try to believe but the message is odd,
From these preachers, quarterbacks, fighters,
I sit in my home and send God a plea,
A hope that he will speak back,
I ask if He is pleased with me,
Are there any virtues I lack,
I don't hear a word or even a sound,
But that is for the best,
No time to tell where my soul is bound,
While He's busy watching the rest,
We are free, free of will,
To never look God in the eyes,
But He can see, the blood we spill,
He can hear their cries,
The feel of pangs,
Of hunger and thirst,
The sting of the fangs,
Of men at their worst,
The fear from a rape,
The anger in homicide,
The smell makes him gape,
From a camp built for genocide,
Children are sold,
For bags of crack,
And I am so bold,
To ask what I lack,
So if you ask me where has God gone,
He's been ignoring you for years,
He probably has other things to focus on,
And can't see you past His tears.

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