My bibles were my idols even though I knew it's people under the steeple who are twisting and shouting their own darkened enlightening because it's all or nothing no room for analysis or doubting.
My pastors were my masters handing out plasters for the wounds they have given me with the words they have just driven into me like nails hammered in with flails taken from their tall tales aggrandising their lives, criticising their wives, sharpening their knives and slashing, bible bashing, giving me a thrashing a tongue lashing cashing in on my insecurity.
The blood drains from my body as I practice my ecclesiastical hobby and am crushed between the doctrine and my DNA.
My priests control the sacraments that I'm told I need for grace and i hold out my hands as I look them in the face and my hands are in my pockets giving cash for the freedom and the weight gets no lighter and my breath is getting tighter and my mind is being shattered and everything that mattered is subject to the harrow scooping out my bone marrow until there is no more of me and even I am not sure of me and say 'no more' I need to heal, to feel, AND TO BE... REAL.
It's nothing like the garden I should soften, not harden - I should be lighter not tighter - be a fighter. Snatch the whip from their hands, be a man, do everything I can to be free - spit out the rotten fruit, don't trip over on the same old root, don't let them shoot take my heart out of the fire don't accept that they are higher, closer, clever, chosen, gifted, uplifted, sanctified, certified or any better than me.
Sixty-six, the magic number, no golden glasses, angels dictating the passages just men writing down the truth as they see it, saw it, was taught it, thought it and some who even bought it - they twist and contort it - extort with it - exhort with it - enforce with it.
Don't be a slave to it, connect to He who sets free with it, let's me just be with it, the one who gives - who lets me live supports me through the times when the world, the flesh, my adversary binds who guides my feet and my eyes to those with broken lives not to the pies in the sky the lies in the eyes of the guys with the suits and the ties the clerical collars looking for dollars in the misery of the people who are turning into sheeple to be fed and fleeced, bled and butchered and consumed then buried and exhumed to fuel the fires of their doom - I'm huddled in the ever shrinking room of my self respect taking refuge in the gloom of the factory of light full of fear and fright - no fight - just the tightness and tickle from of the very last trickle of the blood that coats the floor of my prison cell - creating my own hell - listening to the bell that rings my doom full of gloom watching the plume of smoke that rises from my cremation not recreation, looking to the resurrection no time for reflection - looking back makes the ploughman unfit - it's a march in the wrong direction under the protection of the man who runs the abattoir - how bizarre - I came to be set free but I ended up in a prison of double-minded indecision torn between the truth and my DNA.
So I'm walking in the garden and I still seem to harden on the inside, nothing free about this freedom just disillusion, confusion, ending up in seclusion - I just want to be me and I want Him to love me not bend me, not break me, not sift and shake me not take me through the thorns every day. Walk with Him through the flowers not grovel for hours and hours and hours because He has all the powers and I'm nothing but gnat a worm a constantly bleating sheep seeing demons in his sleeping, weeping for a childhood ruined by violence, betrayal, things no kid should ever see, distance, drugs, brokenness, loneliness, emptiness and phoniness - I'm a cowboy but I'm ponyless - an empty house on a hill and emptier still after 35 years of being killed so that I could believe I was dying to self - regaining mental health - growing not going mad under the pressure of double think - not fitting in - forgiving but never feeling forgiven...my soul is riven - driven into the cold North Sea I'm drowning whilst I'm clowning around telling jokes to hide the emptiness inside - distracting from the internal rot - by focussing on the plot of someone else's story and I don't want to feel like this any more.
To wake up in the morning - even just ONE morning - and feel connected, accepted not rejected or defective - if God wants this life for me then He is not for me but He has me in His hands He's not letting go of me, He keeps showing me the worst of me he's squeezing and bursting me - WHAT DOES HE WANT FROM ME!?
Can't He just leave me be, set me free, give me liberty to just be me and to not worry why I feel nothing but sadness and fear no sense of life here in this five year-old's heart of mine, sleeping in this wet bed of mine, I'm not feeling fine.
(c) Cosmic Gorilla, 2017
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