SUNDAY
mad hippie poet 1974 (new jersey)
I sit here getting ready to wear my Sunday best; I am getting ready to clap my hands sing some songs, and praise some artificial God. What church do you belong to? Religion spreads love and hates? as it teaches us that we were created in their image; hell, the last time I looked in the mirror, I looked like my mother, and she is no man, maybe just a saint to raise a rebel sinner like me.
Sunday, I do not want to pick up any damn book, stand up and sit down, say may peace be with you as you shake the hand of some older man who jerked off before cumming to spread the good word, so ask yourself who the real sinner is?
Sunday, ask yourself what the hell it is that you and you alone believe in, and stop drinking that water on downed communion wine. Think you are your creator, and everything will be fine. On Sunday, how much will you allow them to control your mind as they tell you that their God and heaven are the only way unless you choose the alternative, and honestly, that's your chosen one?
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"SUNDAY" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 13 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/154403/sunday>.
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