Sunday Mourning

I sit in the pews every Sunday morning. 

The gosple goes through both ears,

And gets released only in tears. 

When I walk in, I feel like they know,

Like I reak of an abomination. 

Praying will not change who I am. 

I listen to his words every Sunday morning. 

But all I can imagine is her touch. 

Her presence is the only time I have felt heaven. 

Living in a contridicted mind,

Is worse that I could picture hell to be. 

Peter denied knowing Jesus three times,

But I have denied myself an infinite amount. 

And somehow, that feels more betraying. 

I sit with my family every Sunday morning. 

The two people that love me the most,

Are embedded as a symbol of unaccceptance. 

He teaches us to spread love.

But if the crowd knew, 

The looks on their face would only bring fear. 

Loving within a relevant range, 

Is a love that is confined.

But my love is unbounded.

And that makes me feel closer to God,

Than these four painted walls ever could. 

I sit in church every Sunday morning. 

Puke is on the verge from vodka the night before, 

Or maybe it is becasue I am ill. 

I question my humanity.

I question my existance. 

Words can be so much more than letters.

I go to church every Sunday morning. 

Every Sunday is for mourning.