Poems of Doubtful Hope

My stomach is twisted up in knots Because of the people who God doesn't hate. It feels unjust, it seems ill-advised That I should have to wait For them to be humbled and brought low,  Condemned to their awful fate: But that's not happening where I think it should  To the people who God doesn't hate.  My secret rage, it burns against The people that God doesn't hate.  I want them to suffer, I want them to pay;  With interest, an exorbitant rate! But God refuses to comply No matter how much I shout and cry Ignoring my plaintive pleas of why About the people who God doesn't hate.  If I were honest with myself I'm someone's person who God doesn't hate.  And in the end I trust the plan Of the one who holds our fate.  But that doesn't mean that I don't struggle To love and appreciate All the people who God loves That I would rather hate. 

I talk to people all day long About finding meaning in the midst of chaos.  How to untangle the twists and turns of circumstance And find some hope in the meaning There beneath the surface.  But I've forgotten how to hope for myself.  I've lost the breadcrumbs leading the way back,  Or else I've given them all away to others.  It all feels so hollow and empty.  I can't even muster any outrage.  I just rattle around this fucking husk of an existence, Wondering if maybe someday Things will turn out the way you said they would.  When are you going to punish the wicked? Because all I see is those fuckers thriving.  When are you going to rescue the needy? Kids in cages, starving behind blockades, Immigrants harassed by hateful howler monkeys In bright red hats.  But the worst of all is how hard it is  To keep caring when my brain Just wants to coast on autopilot.  I don't have the energy to keep being outraged.  I don't have th...

I'm pushing and panting, Sweat rolling down my back Like the world's most disgusting waterfall.  My muscles are cramping up. My arms start to shake; My hands start to slip.  Only a few more feet to go Until I'm at the top of this godforsaken rock.  I step on something sharp,  My foot starts bleeding,  And I'm slipping in a widening pool of red.  I give it one last shove,  But I push too hard;  The rock goes up and over,  Starting to roll back down the opposite side.  I lunge for it, as if this effort Has the potential to end another way Than one of my countless previous failures.  My hand slips off as the rock rolls away And I land hard on my face.  I think my nose is broken;  It sure as hell is bruised.  I lay here for a minute.  I think about screaming,  Shouting obscenities at the sky On the off chance anyone is bothering to listen.  I think about giving up; Instead, I stand back up.  I trudge ...