Like a Christian
I dwell myself inside the Church
Admired the priests, all the nun
But then my sin, like an egg, waiting to hatch
The same hands I clasped to pray
Is the hands I used to sin
The same mouth I used to preach
Is the voice vulgar words had been
I bow my head, look lovingly, oh, like a hypocrite
Cry after I sin, pray hard, looking so neat
But it would not last a season, and I'll be crying again
Like a hypocrite, in me, God has nothing to gain
Do not trust me
My words are full of smashes from the pain that lingers
For I could no longer obey God, the way a Christian should be
But serve myself, inside, hypocritically
YOU ARE READING
One Hundred Fifty
RandomFifty, Fifty, Fifty A writing challenge for myself is to create fifty poems, fifty essays, and fifty one-shot stories, every single prekeng day to make it a hundred and fifty days of honing my skills and giving sparks to my interest. Here's the deal...