This is everything I know about God. He was never there for me, but if he was there for you, you're blessed.

By =westernwoods on dA.

There is a God. I have seen him snap the necks
Of children and inspect their hollow remains.
Pushing past the sinews, there is nothing there.
No prayers clogging the arteries, stopping the rush
Of blood, a blackened jet.
Their mouths had not yet learnt how to
Form 'hail mary's'. Tongues twisted at the sound.
The syllables choke.


There is no use lying to a child who when asking
For God, finds only silence.


He is not interested in them. The purity sickens.
There's a boredom in innocence that causes him
To turn away. His eyes are better fixed on those
Who can praise him. The shallow whore who never
Thought her life would take this path. Legs opening
To receive the golden coins that her greed is attracted to.
The eternal magpie offerers up her soul, asks for
Deliverance, and God, being the greediest of all, basks
In her devotion.


This is worth listening to. Each prayer a pearl that he counts.
His own personal rosary. Saved this one, heard another.
He doesn't think about the thousands who don't know where to
Put their faith.


Children suffer eternally for their silence.
God suffers none for his.



---------

Got into a big fight with my parents, and father made me promise to attend church eery sunday until I'm twenty-one.

If this is the type of God people worship, if these are the type of people worshipping God, I don't think I want this God.

"As she is mine, I may dispose of her..." Never thought it'd happen to me. Never thought how powerless I actually am (no legal recourse for teenagers in this oh so conservative Singapore or laws giving teens the right to choose their own religion). So basically it's just four years.

Had to happen on my O level year, didn't it? All shitty things happen to me right before a major exam. What next? I suppose I'll be paralysed from waist down right before my University exams?

I can't wait to grow up and tear off these restraints. Even if I make a mistake it is my mistake and making bad decisions is better than being lead about your nose by people who talk condescendingly to you, as if you are a emotionally unstable five-year old.

Being older doesn't give you the right to walk all over me, faggot. You are human too, you make mistakes, and don't pretend to be otherwise because that is simply pathetic, reminiscent of the Ozymadias poem by Shelley.

I couldn't pay attention in class today, kept zoning out due to repressed anger. Funny isn't it? Politics everywhere: at home, in school, in the world outside. I could pretend I am dumb and stupid because it would make life a whole lot easier. People do get bullied at work and abused, it's life. Never expected the power plays to come into my own home.

When a person avoids Home, you know something is seriously wrong there.

I am just so...irate! The only other time I remember getting this emotionally worked up was THAT year, and I refuse to write about it on such a public platform.

Now I'd like to think that I am normally placid and wouldn't really curse people, but at that point of time, when ________ grabbed me and tried to shove me down the stairs and I have a fear of falling down the stairs for some odd reason, nearly lost my balance, I watched ____ trip over one step before getting to me and at that point, I wished fervently his foot will slip off all too tenderly, so delicately and ______flailing arms will scrabble uselessly by the banister and off he tumbles, down, down, preferably breaking spines. I've heard that Diabetes Mellitus prevents wounds from healing quickly, so it would buy me time if _______ bleeds all over the floor. I hope by some fortunate incident --- spine will twist into his cranium and eyeballs would slide out, breathless, from their orbits.

No no I can't get angry. Emotion is weakness.

If they think that by forcing me to go to chuirch and leaving me trapped will make me love God, they're wrong. Don't they know that a trapped rat would do anything to get free, even biting off its limbs?

I hate this God. God cannot be physical, if he is omnipotent he cannot be constrained in one body.

I belive in a greater force but not this farce, not this sophistry, not this idol which sparked wars and crusades and deranged people.

See, I know this murderer, and he was the most Jesus person I've ever met. Seems that the whole Jesus and God crap didn't stop him from murdering.

Meanwhile, I shall try to calm down and not burn any churches, for some innocent Malay group will be blamed, and people will die, and as a poet I cannot condone such acts.

But you know what, dearest?

I won't wish you death. Death is too easy for you. I hope that you can no longer know the distinctions between your nightmares and reality, that the phanthoms of past would haunt your every waking hour, echoing by your ear; I hope you wake up crying in the night from a dream you can't remember, I hope you experience half the loneliness I did in THAT year or the near self-abandonment, and this time I hope you will never heal from the experience, so you know how it feels like in my shoes for one moment.

Nobody knows me except myself, I am laconic and I keep secrets pressed in my throat blossoming like bitter flowers.

Funny isn't it?

Those of you wondering why teenagers tend to confide in their friends their problems, I kind of discovered the answer yesterday. Because when life is shit you want a listener and not a preacher or a problem solver. Matters of the heart is best solved by oneself.

And parents distance themselves. I bet five million dollars that my parents don't know my favourite colour, much less the authors I appreciate. You may say it's superficial, but in poetry, this is representative of something bigger. A symbol. How can you claim you know a person, or care about said person, fi you can't even nail down their likes or dislikes? How can you characterise such a person? So what if they can remember my blood group and NRIC number? The computer does too, so does my doctor, but they don't love me, do they?

You know what? I'll end this angsty venting with one quote:

He, like everyone else, could not hear me when I did speak; and so I refuse to
speak now, a decision that has become involuntary—perhaps I have forgotten how
to speak, how to move, how to feel alive.

Even speaking, no one heard
me.

A poet, a storyteller whose voice is unheard. An irony in itself, considering that storytellers and their stories are meant to be heard and performed and played.

Irony. The stuff of life.