I have this friend and he is a spiritual leper,
what other people do to him, breaks that good hope that he offers to all men,
But can’t you see child, that hope can never be offered to men…?
But oh, how he hurts and cries when indifference or disrespect is handed out,
He smiles at the assailants, but inwardly he hides his torment,
He can’t forget the way in which they treated him wrong,
He can’t forget the many times he has let the same person go on,
Without telling him that he was wronged,
Perhaps there is a lesson for myself too there…
Oh He forgets sometimes that He too is guilty of being wrong,
He treats gentler souls with that untamed tongue,
because he craves power to feel right,
and wishes to find the way to his own glorious spotlight.
His nature allows him to be nice and friendly,
He tells great jokes that happened to him at work,
He creates testimonies based on kind acts towards the forgotten,
he is gregarious and that is his method.
But oh, the accusations that he conjures up when his heart is rattled,
Can’t He perceive his own sensitivity…?
Is he so blind that he cannot see…?
Trapped in layers of parental effects and his own captivity…?
When he wishes to share his heart,
it is A Broadway musical replete with memorable one liners, a theatrical treat for the curious listener,
Flying accusations, complaints, hurts, grudges, Carefully remembered with precision,
Forgiven by command of his faith, but held inwardly by the maze that he created with laze.
Delivered with intensity, in the same manner that they happened,
Righteous indignation, breaking what the other man is often praised for,
whispering dark secrets about a man who is adored,
perhaps his ego is crying out for attention…? Or praise…?
but in the end they are all treated as forgotten material,
Perhaps in his mind he wishes to erase what he has just vomited.
And begin to assume his superman cape of being perfect.
He once awkwardly shared to me that he is no writer,
I could see the wheels turning in his head,
He struggles to speak without interference,
He has never written, he remembers the horrors of eight standard grammar,
but he has that ambition, but I can sense him trampling my own good intentions,
based on his own historical performance, and I was right,
for in the next line, he asserted himself at my expense,
he tells me how easy it would be for him to write,
as though I were holding him back,
he was performing a mental comparitive calculation,
the curse is back, he wishes to become better than me,
I don’t blame him, but I hate this nature of being able to perceive,
Isn’t the nature of a Jesus centered spirituality…a complete no contest of you versus me..?
Perhaps secrets are meant to be disguised or forgotten…,
I find now that I myself am judging him,
but I have made him a character,
For this is my way of coping with this incessant nature of using wounds to heal,
his method was to turn wounds into reference points,
Memory lanes, and vivid points that could be remembered in his own mental contest of ,
Who is the better Christian…?