Dear God

Dear God,

Why can’t you give me something concrete? I’m tired of listening to man-kind make up sorry excuses for the VAST lack of proof of your existence.

Growing up, the game telephone taught me not to trust everything I heard. So your word, which has passed through centuries of people, must be immensely more of a mockery than purple monkey dishwasher by now.

I want to believe in you, but not the man-made scrambled version. I don’t need the money crazed christmas incarnation. I don’t want to believe for fear of hell, nor for the promise of paradise.

I want to be independent from the smug, numb flocks who print you in any variety that sells allegiance.

Were you created to control

Every earthly soul?

Man-made and able to be sold?

If so

The truth is greater than the fiction 

That the traitor has written

And traded your made up nature

For fear, power, and paper.

But I believe in you,

With our world aside  

As not to misconstrue

With the populated pride

In which selfish desires pursue.

And if I never get to know you, 

Or if you don't exist,

You'll be the only stranger

That I've ever truly missed.



The End

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