Faith

Preacher paces back and forth,

Three squares of cement that he owns for the moment.

He’s sings and flings bible verses left and right,

Wielding gospel as his weapon of choice.

But I, I wield choice alone.

Not as a weapon, but as my battering ram,

Forcing distraction from my path.

As I walk across his sidewalk, I feel his eyes on me,

I can tell he knows that his words aren’t falling on my ears,

But rushing straight past with the wind.

They both feel like ice.

I pull my hat down around my ears, careful to leave my eyes exposed.

My vision is what they really want.  To have eyes only for God.

But, unfortunately for God, I have seen myself.

Not only in a mirror, but in the eyes of my friends, my family, and my lover.

That woman is more alluring than any God you can pretend to show me.

 

In Sunday School, they told us we weren’t perfect.

We were sinners, and we needed God to make us whole.

But here’s what I never understood about that.

When I break a bone, prayer isn’t what makes my body fill in the crack.

Repentance has nothing to do with the process of turning my bleeding cuts into soft scars.

If my heart is broken, I will be the one to pull myself together, God willing or not.

 

They always told me, “Believe in yourself.”

And I do.

Author's Note

I want to expand on this idea to make it a real slam piece, but I don't know what to build off of, etc. I just need criticism.