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Prayer 2
God,
I am sick of it.
My guts are plastered to the inside of my shirt,
Every time I move, I cloud over and pass out on the floor.
I am well known before the throne of Your enemy,
what's his name?, fallen star.
Can I blame him for it?
Can I blame him for the fall?
God,
I am sick of it.
I'm sick of the eyes you gave me,
they see too much,
The ears,
they hear too much,
The tongue,
it speaks,
I can't control it.
God,
I want to write a love poem to You,
make it sappy and innocent and stupid.
I wanna turn cartwheels,
screw up my back,
Skip through the aisles at Bashas supermarket,
and start laughing pointlessly at the avocados,
contemplate broccoli for no good reason.
I can't though. I tried.
God,
I am sick of it.
Make it go away.
POOF it to somewhere else.
Make it gone completely.
I don't know.
My head is reeling, spinning,
brokering for a better deal with my insurance company.
My clothes still reeking of oil from when my car fell apart
somewhere between here and the record store.
And all I wanted was to write something pretty,
But it never works out.
So here's the deal, God. Take away the sticker over my eyes covering Your face. It's only fair, God, because I'm trying my best to show You the real me, and present it as a poem to You, and make it beautiful, how You created me. Filled with randomness and adventure. |
