The Thought that Almost Became a Prayer
by: Dana Stamps, II
How can God hear prayer, hear so many of us praying, and not
get more directly involved? I am goddamned angry at God. So
angry, that I don’t believe I will be offered salvation, nor ever
have my name in the sacred Book of Life. He will forget, in His
Heaven, how much I love Him, now, and even in Hell, alone.
Back when I believed I could just believe,
I remember how an invisible Holy Pedestal was in every room
that occupied me as I sinned (though not knowing how or what
sin was, I still believed I was a sinner, innocently, because God
said in the Holy Bible that I was a sinner). He, seated Santa-like,
eyes casually judging me, seeing everything, taking all sense
of privacy. He, I learned fast, was too … something … to plain
talk to me. I never could come to terms with whether it was
neglect or abandonment. Is it possible invisible gods are thus
because they’re not there? I was lonely while I was Lorded over.
I hate Him. I hate God, the angels. But I will forgive Him if He
will answer for His crimes!
against Humanity!
I’ve written a lot of extremely shocking yet highly imaginative
poems about His Highness, but that was all because I was hurt.
“Pay attention to me!” is what I was saying with every blasphemy.
“Love me in a way, God, that I can feel now! Not in Heaven,
here and now, hear and now I need You now; I need You now.
So God, if free will is really a gift of love and not a curse,
then it is ours truly – we’re equal with You because You will it,
or it is a lie. Given free will to bow? It was never ours; or
should I call us “its,” because without unconditional freedom,
we are not “ours,” but Your “its.” Some knees will not bend,
nor should they, though I am on my knees, even while sitting
cross-legged in the lotus position, ever on my knees for You.
Respect “itty” us independent of some claim as Creator. Can my
father say, “Come, come with me. You are now my child,
again. I am responsible, boy, for your birth. Come with me,
you are now my slave,” and not be wrong? Be not wrong.
God, if this is the last thing I will ever get to say to You (I am
still awaiting a lightning bolt!
Electricity looks beautiful in the sky, nor am afraid of salt, bears,
or water). I think I should say, Godot, You oughta know
what I’d say omnip. But You don’t, do You? You, you, are
not worth believing in, you. Just as mystified by the future as I?
Yet I love you. And I would do anything for you, if you’d
clearly ask. Send yon burning bush into my living room, poof,
make it happen at, say, Christmas if it’s easier with the tree.
And talk to me. For God’s sake, if you love me, you’ll miss me.
Plea----------s-------------------------e … … You?
Back to Poetry Menu
