Masters of Destruction
Faith
Faith
Faith
I don’t have it, or believe in it
I have no faith in the Lord, our saviour
The Creator of the world
If he really created everything,
And wanted everything for the best,
He would never have made us.
Humans, the creative masters of destruction
Yes, I like being alive
But when you think about the world,
You get that awful nagging feeling,
The one that hisses that the world
Would be better without us
Maybe that’s just me.
It’s another thing I lack
Faith in humanity
We kill other species, instinct,
And waste the finite resources of this planet,
And for what?
Money
We need to survive.
Yet we can’t eat it, can’t wear it, can’t drink it
But we have manifested it to be the essential building block of life
Without it none may exist meaningfully
At least, that’s what they say.
But ignore my selfish rant because in actuality,
This is my confession, my conclusion
I’m confused
I’ve been molded to believe lies
I want to think for myself
For my existence, mind, and soul
It’s strange I have no faith in myself
I am a non-entity
A failure
I don’t know why I enter contests
I like the challenge, but I always know
Always, that I won’t win.
It upsets me sometimes,
Fine, more often than I care to admit,
When I lose a contest with an entry I liked
Because that in itself is rare
Take this poetry contest I’m entered in
I know it’ll take a miracle to win
The other three are so incredibly talented
But this week, their faith poems are phenomenal
They all blew me away
They were so well laid out
So well thought through
How can I compete with that?
I’m still a child, barely developed, barely mature
I’m not the next Edgar Allen Poe,
Shel Silverstein, Robert Frost
I’m not good enough for that
It’s the truth; I accept it
Though my competitors have decent shots at it
“The Buzzards” was bloody fantastic
I was so jealous when I read it
And I couldn’t bring myself to write
So now it’s 9 o’clock on a Sunday
As I struggle to write something decent
Running on three hours sleep,
I’ll just be happy to finish this
Accomplished that I turned something in
Poetry’s not my forte, if you hadn’t noticed
But neither is story writing, dance, or physics
The only real place I have any faith,
In my few and far between abilities,
Is with a knife in my hand
Cooking in my kitchen
My safe place, my haven
The one place I can do no wrong
Faith
Faith
I don’t have it, or believe in it
I have no faith in the Lord, our saviour
The Creator of the world
If he really created everything,
And wanted everything for the best,
He would never have made us.
Humans, the creative masters of destruction
Yes, I like being alive
But when you think about the world,
You get that awful nagging feeling,
The one that hisses that the world
Would be better without us
Maybe that’s just me.
It’s another thing I lack
Faith in humanity
We kill other species, instinct,
And waste the finite resources of this planet,
And for what?
Money
We need to survive.
Yet we can’t eat it, can’t wear it, can’t drink it
But we have manifested it to be the essential building block of life
Without it none may exist meaningfully
At least, that’s what they say.
But ignore my selfish rant because in actuality,
This is my confession, my conclusion
I’m confused
I’ve been molded to believe lies
I want to think for myself
For my existence, mind, and soul
It’s strange I have no faith in myself
I am a non-entity
A failure
I don’t know why I enter contests
I like the challenge, but I always know
Always, that I won’t win.
It upsets me sometimes,
Fine, more often than I care to admit,
When I lose a contest with an entry I liked
Because that in itself is rare
Take this poetry contest I’m entered in
I know it’ll take a miracle to win
The other three are so incredibly talented
But this week, their faith poems are phenomenal
They all blew me away
They were so well laid out
So well thought through
How can I compete with that?
I’m still a child, barely developed, barely mature
I’m not the next Edgar Allen Poe,
Shel Silverstein, Robert Frost
I’m not good enough for that
It’s the truth; I accept it
Though my competitors have decent shots at it
“The Buzzards” was bloody fantastic
I was so jealous when I read it
And I couldn’t bring myself to write
So now it’s 9 o’clock on a Sunday
As I struggle to write something decent
Running on three hours sleep,
I’ll just be happy to finish this
Accomplished that I turned something in
Poetry’s not my forte, if you hadn’t noticed
But neither is story writing, dance, or physics
The only real place I have any faith,
In my few and far between abilities,
Is with a knife in my hand
Cooking in my kitchen
My safe place, my haven
The one place I can do no wrong