Touching God

touchinggod
Hand to God,
Touching and tangible.

Back home
This is heathenry.
Unclean.
Unhealthy.
I’m not supposed to be here.

Back home…
There were a lot of things.
Like hand to throat silence.
Like,
“If you open your mouth one more time,
I’ll kill you.”
So I try not to
Go home.

Instead,
Here,
Hand to God.
Touching and tangible.
Finding that holy
Isn’t something I’m kept from
Rather
Invited to.

We’re all unclean here,
Sinners,
But it doesn’t mean love
Is out of our reach.
Doesn’t mean we’ve been created
To be kicked around;
To be left alone;
To suffer.

I know it feels that way.
Know there are days we hate God.
Like he meant
For people to wrong each other
When he said love
Always and to the end.

If we can’t,
I know he will
Because someone has to live that shit.
So back home
Can fuck off.
I’ll stand reaching for God;
Trying to love as he loves
Because someone has to.

Someone
Has to break the cycle.
Stop eye for an eye toothaches.
To love
As we ought love ourselves,
And y’all,
We need to love ourselves a lot better.
Stop kicking the shit out of yourself.

I’ve seen God,
And he’s not back home.
He’s here
Waiting for us to break through
The self-impoverished thinking
That it was God’s fault,
And not home
Where we learned to take our first steps
On the broken backs of each other.

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About Z.

Poetic pipe and cigar enthusiast rifling through the haunted memories of a not so distant past while openly wrestling with faith and God. A rambling writer with the misguided notion that he has something to say. His only redeeming qualities are his wife and children.
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