I think I once knew who God was,
for maybe a second.
He used to be the wind that knocked me down
and made me see how imperfect my world was- a world of people talking at me, but never talking 'to' me.
I mean, if God really had "made" my limbs, stitch by stitch,
he would realize that I have been falling apart at the seams
for quite some time now, my wounds facing outward
for all those I let enter, to view. At their own pleasure, of course.

One who does not know themselves must
cower in fear at the things they do not know...
because they never take the time to venture inside
before letting the outside world corrupt them.
Hell, we corrupt ourselves internally anyways.
Who am I kidding?

I know very well I am capable of creating my own hell.
So that, I would know it like the back of my hand
and the way you zone out, like a pilot in submission
of his own flight. And he lets the wind do all the talking,
agreeing that his private jet will have a crash landing.

Like the sun forgets to force its way through the window cracks
to reach a dying flower, I am forgotten.
But then again, who can save an already hopeless plant?
It was never once a part of vegetation, never saw the beauty of
being intertwined with another plant.
Solitude, has been its constant wake of existence.

Rebirth - is the only hope one has, to survive in a world where when they reach death, it is not the first time they have died.
I hear the pilot in my head, nodding in submission, because he knows the only spirit taking his orders is the one looking outward at the corrupt world, and not the one facing their head up at the sky.