Here I lie,
shivering, afraid.
People call me
names they’ve claimed.
I toyed around, found a hobby,
looked at what ought to be.
As a perfect being, I created them in my image —
what they are, what they’ve become, disgusts me.
I hear them calling
every second.
How do you make it stop?
Nothing is and never was.
If I could change my mind,
I would wash out my mouth with soap.
I created horror.
A killing machine.
I cry myself to sleep,
seeing all the worlds I’ve made,
none of them like me,
but in my image.
Why — if I am omnipotent —
do I close my eyes to the death and destruction
I have caused?
I wanted.
Wanted to be a perfect GOD.
In my creations, I see my flaws.
Jehovah.
-
Author:
Tooway (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 17th, 2025 18:41
- Comment from author about the poem: God is empty, just like me.
- Category: Spiritual
- Views: 13
Offline)
Comments2
A great perception of creation no better that the creator. Nicely done
An interesting and enjoyable read, everything and one has flaw's, nicely expressed and written
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