Books are Like Broken Glass

I don’t even try to deny the things that satan says to me,
don’t claim to be better than that.

I don’t identify with meaningless feelings that come and go randomly,
thoughts that rise to the surface like cream,
no matter how many times you beat your mind together
they rise up all the same, till they puff up white and swollen,
till they run over into your lap.

I don’t make my mind into a beautiful place anymore,
don’t participate in the war for my intentions. I don’t intend to use them anymore.
It’s a hoarder’s attic, my bedroom floor, neglected, like an addict’s stolen life.
When another dirty rag is added to a towering heap,
this merits no attention from me.
The deplorable state of my addled mind bores me.

But I hope you see that I don’t lie
when I say I
find my hope in you.
I don’t lie when I take communion, and come to you and
ask, not to use you, but to sow your sacraments into my soul
and reap some greater union with you.

Give me feelings that are not meaningless, if it is your will,
as I decide to be less faithless.
Make my mind into a beautiful place again, and restore my intentions.
You are my help. Amen.

I believe that you will do these things
I only hope that I’ll believe they’re blessings when they come.

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