SQUASHING ANGELS

I confess to it, I am depressed
A little crushed, a whole lot less
Somewhat deflated
Like a shrivelled skin
This fact not unrelated
To his death

I am quite possibly the
biggest sin
For lounging in the pissed
off bin
My soul the very shade
Of devil's gin

And forgive me if I cannot
find
That final state required of
mind
Or let it go or move on up
To be as tall as all the brave
Whom god has ever blessed
To brave the fall

I don't like pain I don't see
gain
In anything or anyone
And that is that, I've made it
said
I fail to thrive alive
Whilst he thrive's dead

But know you this
My only sin
Is idling in the pissed off
bin
Alone, atoning phantom
sins
While scribbling every thought
and whim,

Not bothering you or
wanting you
Rejecting all you try to do
Which ever is to make me
see
That all I need to do
Is be happy

My choosen friend has
been the pen
To slice the  words to shreds
and then
To tack them back with
blood and gore
To throw them raging at a
page

My only vice... to be not
nice
To not play ball or read the
book
Or understand the gain in
pain
To maybe own a rebel brain

That throws the dirt back at
your god
With paper pens and cutting
words
To question all I've ever
heard
And maybe squash some
angels
On the way

M P 7/4/22