I Am Tired of Praying for This World

Photo Credit: Wikimedia Creative Commons - Rubens Praying Hands
Photo Credit: Wikimedia Creative Commons – Rubens Praying Hands

I am tired of praying for this world.
I no longer believe in god.

I believe in the ability of men to hate.
I believe in the greed and corruption of government.
I believe in the goodness of a child’s heart
and the subtle selfish change we give its beat.

I no longer believe in god.

We’ve been using him as an excuse for murder for so long
I doubt he’d listen to our prayers anyway.
I doubt he’d want to hear from us at all.

God has become to excuse for hate –
the reason we can look at small, blow-up boats
full of women and children,
desperate men hanging on to each frozen, crested wave
like hope was a beacon set in the middle of the sea…
and we can sit there in that lighthouse,
and stare at that man,
and see something to be afraid of.

Where the color of someone’s skin dictates just how much air time they get
and whether it’s a graduation photo shown
or a mugshot.

Where our commercials pray on weak minded men to make them believe
they need this gun to be more manly,
this gun to be confident,
to be important.
While the NRA makes women believe the next wave of feminism
has come packaged in tiny metal bullets,
is delivered at the range and carried
concealed in their purses.

This world, where we can only find the strength to reach out to our brothers and sisters
when our brothers and sisters look like us,
have skin like us,
worship like us,
believe like us,
vote like us,
think like us.

We have poured so much hate into this earth,
even she is trying to get rid of us.

I am tired of praying for this world.

I no longer believe in god.

I will pray for my children instead.

I will pray that somewhere in the mire and muck we are leaving behind for them,
they find love.

© Laura A. Lord, 2015

Sacrifice

Stock Image: Dreamstime
Stock Image: Dreamstime

I do not think I like this legacy of mine.
Half my life we’ve been at war
and slaughter has become the adulthood I know.
I gave up my generation to fight this war
and we’re leaving behind new gods in our wake.
We’re all hailing at the Church of Trump
and we mistook the burning bush
for George W.
Because the deacons of our NRA society
have told me I need this gun to stay safe,
have shown me that worship
comes in small metal packages,
shot straight into the heart of the issue
of this up and coming,
numb generation.
Where we have exchanged
love thy neighbor
for love thy white neighbor,
thy Christian neighbor,
thy middle-aged, gun toting,
conservative neighbor.
This is a land where we can preach
all life is sacred
and then quote the second amendment
all in the same breath.

I do not think I like this new god.
If I have to have one,
served at every meal,
shoved down my throat
at every impasse of my morals
with a side of the cherry-picked lines
from that book…
I think I like your angry god.
I think I like his old testament self –
where he turned a woman to salt
for her uncontrollable urge to look back
at the city that screamed like babes.
I want his desperate need for
constant sacrifice,
because we’re already doing it.
We’re good at it.
Eventually he might even be appeased.
I want that angry god to step in
say enough, is enough
and put his finger right on the heart of the issue
of every Obama is Coming for Your Guns Commercial
that says we need more guns, more guns, more guns…
More guns to stay safe from school shooters
who blow away my children’s generation.
More guns to protect ourselves from black people,
yellow people,
brown people,
who want our jobs,
to sell us drugs,
to steal our things,
to hurt us.
More guns to safeguard our god
from their god.
Because killing in the name of ours is moral
and killing in the name of theirs
is terrorism.
Because at the end of the day
that god is a loving god
with an affinity for combat grade
automatic weapons
and a righteous cause…
I pray for your angry god.
In Jesus name,
Amen.

© Laura A. Lord, 2015

Your Bullet

pen-and-ink-drawing-the-gun-creativity-carnival-shafaliI suppose He tore another page from The Book today. . .
let is slide between sweaty fingers,
slice the tip,
right there under the nail,
so the pain would ebb and flow,
waves of electricity with each
thump-thump –
a heartbeat set to leap into
break-neck pace,
as the blood dripped like heavy sealing wax.
Gifts unwrapped and
His will is a shiny, sparkling,
death trap.
It’s fully loaded and
set to go
right through the forehead
with the little blonde curl.
It’s His will,
His gift. . .
but your bullet.


You can join in this prompt at the Creativity Carnival, here.