crucify

i wonder if a rosary can wash away the splattered blood on your hands. 

do prayers ease the guilt or is there a pang of guilt at all? 

does your god tell you to look straight, like a horse with its sideways vision blinded? 

or do you also ignore for it is apparently his will that they are sitting there? 

three of your fingers have been chopped off, 

one for every mother who lost their kid because of stray bullets, and bullets that are meant to protect them, 

two, for those who do not have a stain of nutrient on their stomach while others are hoarding caviars

and third, for yourself, who chooses to be blind even if the pungent smell of death is suffocating you while your knees are bent. 

do you have tears 

or is that just water splashed on your face

when you tried to bleach and clean your nails, 

pretending that your soul can enter your golden gates. 

people are literally dying

and all you think of is how you would have your name on the book of life, 

when you lived with massacres, and corpses, thrown under your feet. 

I would rather burn in hell, 

than wake up each morning with my artificial halo

and preach to all those that are suffering, "it is your fault, a redemption for your sins."

Spare me of your pious ways, of your memory verses, of your prayers, 

the hungry won't be fed with bread, because there are millions of them, 

the injustice won't be destroyed by tithing inside churches, 

murders are planned and done even if it's Sunday,

and the rosary that you hold so tightly will not choke tyrants. 

oh, how I wish it could. 

(art and photo from Jacob Oliver panget @j.cob_ol)