And this is more a rant I just spewed onto a blank document more than anything else.
the homeless man on the corner
watches everyone walk by with blind and
self-cataracted eyes, ignoring the begging cap full of air
and the visions dancing in front of his
aching, terrified eyes that he’s been fighting for a year--
you’re all just walking by, unseeing and unknowing,
and most importantly, uncaring
about what you never try to look at--
it’s so easy to grow so comfortable and cozy
and SNUG in ignorance
that you become reluctant to move,
and inertia takes your limbs like everyday is Sunday and
you don’t feel like going to Church to close your eyes.
but the real question is, how can you go to Church
when your eyes are closed
and your ears are numb and buzzing,
when you’ve dulled down your senses to that
of a cucumber, and even walking becomes hard
when you’re swathed in so many sheets
of simple STUPID?
you preach and you speech and you tear
out your hair at the condition of humanity
while facing forward with both hands on the wheel,
watching the street while at a stop, and drowning in white noise
instead of seeing the homeless man who sits and sobs on the curb
and doesn’t know what to do with his broken, used-up life,
because he’s never really lived;
you haven’t spoken with the bruised, baggy-eyed prostitutes
or the gamblers so unbalanced with debt that they’ve fallen from their families
because they don’t deserve your God:
they’re too dirty, too fat, too scary, too unknowing,
and if they don’t already know,
why should you tell them?
you hold Him inside you like a vice,
terrified that if you let Him go,
He’ll leave you in disgust with what you are,
because somewhere deep inside, there’s a
suppressed knowledge of SIN that you don’t want to recognize,
a little niggling worm of wakefulness that screams at you about
how you don’t really know your God,
you don’t really know how He works or feels, or what He says,
and you don’t want to share Him, because He might find someone
better, someone who’s a better business man or soccer mom,
someone who doesn’t chew as loudly and knows how to change a tire--
and so the others souls can rot, can burn and
die in a charred husk of dirty skin and too-long fingernails,
still plagued by nightmares and reminders of a war that they never should have fought--
it doesn’t matter, because in the end
you have your God.
