Atheist

Maybe it is because we know
even the atheist cries out, “Why God!”
on his most broken day.

Still

Why this love for music
But a voice no one loves?
Why do you want me to play
When no one else does?

Why do I write poetry
That people don’t read?
Why do I pretend
You’re all that I need?

Why do I have talent
That sits on the shelf?
Why do you keep thinking
I don’t need any help?

Oh, where do you go,
On nights like last night?
Where do you go,
Unmistakable light?

How come it’s so hard
To get out of my bed?
And yet even harder
To get out of my head?

I practice and practice
For a day that won’t come
I fight and I fight
For a war that is won

Of pains, I know many
I seem to master them all
These pains ne’er subside
Not a single one small

You have made me a glutton
For sorrow and grief
A prisoner of pain
A sadness motif

And yet I get up
As each night dies
Still I get up
And still I rise

His Sadness

Maybe we’re all pieces of God’s personality.
Some of us represent his happiness.
Some represent his frustrations.
Others still, are his wonder, his fear, his joy.

I am his sadness, I think.

I am his woe and depression. I am his lament and sorrow. I am him when he looks at brokenness in the mirror and doesn’t accept it, when he looks at it out the window too. I am him when when he’s kicking and screaming and foaming at the mouth in the face of all this sin and separation. I am him when he’s tied to a bed in a mental hospital, thrashing and wishing for something, anything else.

I am his sadness.

I’m sure of it.