I chased it everywhere,
in booze that blurred my vision
and burned my throat,
in women who left whispers,
lies, and an occasional pair of panties behind,
in the flash of dollar signs,
the stale cigarettes,
the numbness of pills,
the rhythm of futile, meaningless nights.
Nothing fit.
Nothing stayed.
Just a temporary echo,
where something eternal wanted in.
I wandered for decades,
clutching my nonsense like it was life,
like it was gold,
thinking maybe this vagina
would be my portal to heaven,
or that one
my personal utopia.
I chased hits, drinks, lies, and laughs
through hundreds of cities
across this country.
But it kept calling,
like a hound from heaven.
That shape, that ache—
the one no whiskey could fill,
no woman, no fleeting thrill,
no applause,
no quiet Sunday morning
with a half-empty beer
and my own pathetic
reflection in the mirror.
And when I finally stumbled,
broke my teeth on my pride,
looked past the glittering carnival of life,
the grit and grime of myself,
the Creator waited, quiet,
not with judgment,
but with a whisper
and a hand
that fit the hole
I’d been trying to fill all along.
Obedience isn’t a curse;
it’s the only honest response
to a life I once shredded
with rebellion.