. martyr .
Where is your saviour now?
The man who would be a god,
who walked amongst whores and thieves,
calling himself the son of man,
yet praying to a god, his father.
Wisdom of all knowledge,
surrounding himself with fishermen,
convicts, and traitors.
He offers streets of gold and jasper,
and prepares a mansion for me,
if only I care not for gold and jasper,
and live in squalor.
I walk amongst whores and thieves,
I am the son of a great man,
does that make me righteous?
I do not trust fishermen,
convicts, or traitors.
I look upon those, with great suspicion
that speak only in riddles or parables.
Where is your jesus,
when your brother dies of AIDS,
when you father is killed by war,
when your child is raped?
where is your fucking jesus then?
And in the end, as he hung there,
he proclaims himself righteous,
and says he dies for me.
I did not ask it of him.
My hands, my feet,
they do not bleed for him,
I do not emulate this jew on a stick.
Make me your martyr.
My sins are pure.