Shitstorm

"Father, into your hands I commend my spirit."

Lucky bastard never had to fail and fail and fail again,

to fall into the hands of entropy and watch

it all crumble apart, again and forever;

never had to confront aloneness

but for that final moment looking on

as he left behind the shitstorm of human existence.

I am a fraud, you know -

each day I rise, I smile, I laugh,

I try to make it seem like

the house of cards isn't coming apart

again, but Christ almighty,

this is not my game.

I will not live long enough

for the good days to match the bad.

All my life I've waited to awaken, not alone,

worked to be a better man -

I read, I write, I think, I try to grow

(even though I'm only treading water, halfway drowned).

What have I done so bad

to require this endless atonement?

Now that my spirit flickers low, my body slowly giving out,

I wonder will I soon escape

(and if heaven is all the best of what's on earth,

dear God,

I hope it's all a lie).

Go and raise your children to believe the lie of living,

to become another flesh-offering

to the God of Fuck-it-all,

to believe the lie of loving,

to deny the wear and tear of caring

while no-one else seems to give a good goddamn.

I don't want this guilt and grave self-doubt,

but this is who I am, not who I chose to be,

nor who I might have been

but for endless tribulation.

Now be honest to yourself and answer:

how real is the smile looking back

from your cracked mirror?

I am so tired.