A Piyyut of the Squalid Heart: A Plea to Yehová

I. The Argument of Shame (Confession to My Abba)

My Abba, my Witness, can my soul be cursed?
A spirit scorched by unfulfilled desire?
Not Your fierce wrath, but recognition is the worst;
Can Yehová behold me through this mounting shame?

I’ve sinned with weight, not born of malice or spite,
But from the grasp of desperation felt.
Before the suffocating torpor sealed me tight,
I drank to hush the wound that never healed.
It wasn't sin, perhaps, but all the lies I spun,
To stay alive, to stay entirely unseen.
Lies whispered once the bitter, awful day was done,
And drinks to drown what might have truly been.

I am a child of two, bereft of either one—
Not darling nor the single cherished kind.
No loving arms lamented I had gone,
No fealty lingered, no one ever pined.

Insipid syrup sadly on the floor did pool,
Within this failing body, limp and prone.
My pounding heart awaited to be schooled—
Comprehending not why I had been alone.

You know I was Uncherished, that no kindred wept,
The moment I was cast beyond the gate.
I crawled through empty halls where silence crept,
Estranged by blood, unmoored by cruelest fate.

I coveted the world of someone else's dream—
A life where solace was no grand deceit.
I watched it cross-stitched into perfect theme,
But knew my purpose wasn't in the thread.

O God what a shitty life—
Beneath this fragile mask, the deep aches burn, My Abba.

II. The Urban Lament (Lament before Yehová)

I drift through days consumed by silent haze,
A shadow cast in sorrow's bitter wine.
I watched the world progress through woven maze,
Conceding that the answer wasn’t mine.

The park bench offers cold repose. The pale sky looms.
The rustling breath of trees, a low confession.
I sit where every hope to tell a story fails—
Where stillness offers life and death’s possession.

Who feeds the pigeons in the urban park,
And why was I not granted wings like them?
The question hangs, a desolate, quiet mark,
Like crumbs they toss without a holding stem.
They rise, they leave—I hitherto must still remain,
Anchored forever to the stones they crossed,
Then vanish into morning’s vibrant vein—
Their simple grace, a thing I have not lost.

O God what a shitty life—
I watch the wounded silence bleed and swell, Yehová.

I craved the fierce burn, the most bitter pour—
A drink to finally hush the pigeons’ cry.
I walked, perhaps I drove—of this I’m sure
I shouldn’t drive, but still, I can't deny.

I turned the key; the door gave easy way.
The humid air was stale, the light was weak.
The screen lit up. The distant war came in.
She speaks of carnage, ruin, death, eclipse—
While I sit unwashed, unloved, and utterly lost.

I dissolve without a single trace.
A woman utterly crumbling, not composed—
No formal script for grief like mine enclosed.

Yehová, when ache outlasts the body’s weakened frame,
Where do we go, what humble homes remain?
To graves, to memory, or just to shame—
Uncaptioned, unmarked, but yet sustained by pain.

III. The Plea of the Sinner (Intervention by My Witness)

My Abba, Grant me only this: if I manage to now make
It to my bed, I’ll sleep in final peace.
And if You favor, that I might arise, awake—
My soul’s true Guard, please bring me swift surcease.
To something better than—
This shitty life I can’t endure.

Bereft in the tub, but found upon the floor,
Mouth dry, head pounding, a most shameful thrill.
My baby learned survival’s hardest lore—
No guide, no help, no mother ever there.

She pushed the chair with quiet, simple grace,
Her tiny hands knew precisely where to go.
She found the fridge, the binky’s rightful place,
Survival learned too young for her to show.

She curled beside me gently on the floor,
No tantrum, tear, or urgent cry for aid.
Just instinct—piety without a formal score,
Forgiveness in her simple breath displayed.

O God what a shitty life—
She dreams beside this crumbling wreckage yet, My Witness.

I hate this life I wear entirely by force,
A costume fashioned from borrowed, final time.
I long to leave its shattered, endless course,
Yet stay for her—my single thread, my line.

She vouchsafes her devotion—her eyes discern
A mother mending, shining with gold in line.
She is my Kintsugi—my repair, my whole, 
The gilded seam in every painful break.
She teaches me what burning ardor can make.

IV. The Seal of the Beloved (Resolution)

And now I set her future’s simple frame—
My tiny girl, my fragile, trembling grace.
Yehová, don’t let me pass along this shame—
Don’t let me ruin her untouched, sweet face.

I want to rise, to be her certain shield,
Not just survive, but finally be revealed—
A woman who yet inherently understands.

O God what a shitty life—
She yet believes I still can truly heal.

She is the only prayer I fundamentally trust,
The only sacred vow I’ve never lied about.
She blooms despite my ash and rising dust,
She curls where I have only ever died.

The past assaults relentlessly on every door,
Its silence louder than the body’s strain.

My Abba, I woke to silence, knowing no one came.
I was not missed. The sun continued to rise.
I was Unanchored in the ways that truly hold.
I was not loved. I fade, untold—
A vapor with a permanently hollow heart.

O God what a shitty life—
Let her gentle hand now lift me from my sins. Amén.