Songs

I sit in my room and listen to Johnny Cash sing sad songs. When that album is done, I'll probably switch to Nirvana. I hear the pain in their voices. I feel like I'm not alone; I feel fellowship. Of course, I know this can't be true. Not only did neither one even know my name before they went to God, the reaction of the rest of you to my words just can't compare. This most-important aspect of my personality seems to eternally fall short of the arrogant jackass that most people who know my name associate with it. Getting people to read is like pulling teeth; I believe my words are even less pleasant than the dentist. I send sweet words out to find a similar taste on the tip of a kindred tongue; intentions matter little. My poems don't pass through lips or ears; at best they pierce the eyes like Jocasta's Brooches. None of you will see me after reading them. Someday, I'll throw in with Prester Bane and the rest; at least they'll talk to me. Being an opinionated jerk that no one likes feels better than a melancholy madman that no one even knows.

Don't tell me Jesus loves me; he can't hear me from here. I can't pray because Prester Bane won't let me. He runs interference, and speaks out of turn. Prester bane laughs at pain and stares my problems in the face before spitting in my teary eyes. Happy now? My religion is a joke that hides out around larger and larger stacks of pill bottles. Most days, the only words Prester Bane lets through ask the Lord to bring me home. Until today, I thought those words never get through the haze that blurs most of my life; I know now that I am home, and I always will be. Faith is a thought. The Bible is meant to be understood. Moses brought Hebrews words, books, and even guilt. Christ brings not peace, but a sword. That sword severs those bits of us not meant for hellfire: at the root, it's a cure for original sin. However, I'm a stranger to most of that. My sins are not the kind you find beneath fig leaves or spare paint to cover Michelangelo's pure vision. I don't know what the hell is going on right now. I just know it hurts, and I find no comfort from introspection, words I seem to never understand, or any of you.

David is a favorite. Jacob is a favorite. I don't kill a man to be with his wife, and I don't extort money from my starving brother; no amount of good behavior or applied morality can save me from myself. Psalms lie beyond my reach, and I only find comfort in reading Job, a book I don't understand. I don't know if my problems are caused by not understanding a reasonable code through my lack or reason, or simply being who I am. There is no herd of pigs for my Legions, and I should probably stop asking for one.