I was in a dark place when I wrote this, just thinking about something I'd read on here about 'perfection' and I had to write something. I rated this R for depressing subject matter. You've been warned.
This is my home, dark and wet,
the echoes of drips never ceasing, so empty;
as pointless as my thoughts.
The ground slimy, reeks of despair
My own flaws wafting straight through,
into my nose as a reminder of who I am
and what we, in the end, will always be defined as.
Quickly, I descend, back into the depths,
the dark calling to me, hailing me as
one of its children, long-lost,
But not forgotten. We never stray,
far beyond the void, our calling
Beckoning us deeper into our caves
revealing that we are worth nothing.
Or am I wrong?
What says the maker, who stands up above?
His words are blocked out by echoes and moans.
We find no comfort here, no solace,
and yet he somehow reaches down to us
pulling us into light, where we can be free.
This cave is my home, but it is my prison as well.
May he take us away, take us up,
make us so that we are no longer flawed.
Save us from our depths and cores of decay,
remind us what is worth living for,
and with that, we may yet be saved.
Though we cling to our insanity and lusts,
somehow, redemption is ours to find.
