Holy pride

You look down on me because I don’t pray. If you knew what else I didn’t do, what instead I do, what would you then say. More than what you already have, “Haven't you learnt any better?” but sir, what for.

Oh how the color of your eyes changed. My reflection within them just no longer the same. How do I look now? Have the pupils in my eyes become larger, has my skin tone shifted darker? Has my hair become any thicker, any rougher? I’m I no longer capable, no longer respectable? or I’m I plainly pitiful.

You look down on me, now in a lower grade. I’ve gone far off, gone astray. Then after you’ve shoved me out, you come wiggling back. Console me, devote your heart, enlighten mine, and loosen what has been tightened and strained from the cruel class system of this game.

Be frank, ask em’ questions straight, “Do you believe in an ever after?” In my head, “what a disaster.”

But, I entertain, and remain in character. I share my proof of what’s profoundly true. How when in dire need of a miracle, there is always answer to my lip mouthed howl. Savior from failure, haven from danger, and home of no labels allowed, don’t need to know your religion to make me feel proud.

It is the reality in which I live in today. I have no care for the places you’ve been in, nor for the wrongs you’ve mistakenly did.

“Out beyond the ideas of wrongdoing and right-doing. There is a field. I’ll meet you there.” — Jalaluddin Rumi
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