By C.S. Scarrow

I only bring truth and happiness 
when faith is no longer part of my existence. 
what am I? 

I am not the head of a religious man 
but the heart of one. 
I am not a living entity 
but the conception that drives one. 
what am I? 

I place needles in your eyes 
with strings attached to the end 
and drag you around 
a slave to my name. 
what am I? 

as I lead you around towards a hole 
with your skinless knees and rotten ligaments 
you still follow blindly in desperate need 
that you will be rewarded for your devotion 
to me. 
what am I? 

I am born of the unprotected sex 
of bleeding diaries 
and virgin children 
who have not been raped by 
glass blankets shattered over their heads 
With scattered images of their savior. 
what am I? 

and at the end of the drop 
when every tooth is pulled 
and your eyes are free from injection 
the only thing you are left with asking yourself 
is 
“who am I?”