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If Truth is What I Make It

Muddled religious platitudes
leave me questioning existence and further
hush the echoes of truth. Hypocrites!

“God bless”ripped of its earth-quaking power
by unrepentant ministers who curse children with trauma
huddled naked under their self-righteous protection. Why would I want that?

Savior? What a laughable insult. I am god of my fate.
I am independent. A pull-yourself-up by-the-bootstraps kinda
person. Connect to god any way I choose. Or none at all.

I can stoke the flame of my passion with a flip of a channel.
Obstacle or object, I can abuse or manipulate people like pawns. Bend
them to the will of my mood.

The world is crammed with little wack-a-mole idols
popping up with flashy egos. “Look at me!” And I look.
Devoid of humility. Empty of truth. These are the ravenous monsters I sacrifice to?

Forgive and forget or take revenge are one and the same when I am god. Distilled of life-giving
obedience i forget to trace God’s instilled image in you.
To forgive and remember. Now there is the coup ‘d’ etat.

Sin, the abyss of separation from God. Sin, I once recognized and crumbled
to my knees in repentance. Sin is now bridged by
religious arrogance and social norms. “You do you.”

And in the end, when soul is spent, I ask. What is really different between Saint and sinner
if truth is what I make it?

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