God
God, I think you’re there,
but at home
in my bed alone,
it’s hard to know that you hear.
I want to believe that you care,
but special, I am not.
So I’ll lay in my bed and rot.
Up at the ceiling, I stare.
I could just swear,
when I was in church,
about to burst,
that you were there.
Here, the light is a glare.
So I turn it off,
and turn soft,
and sink into despair.
God, do I dare?
I want to stay like this,
the darkness is bliss.
I hate that I like the nightmares.
I lay broken, in disrepair.
how much more can I take
before eventually I break?
I’ve always wanted to speak a prayer.
