SATURDAY NIGHT SERVICE

Chained.
To pussy and drugs, I am a servant.
My mistress, pushed me down on my knees,
Set fire to an alter full of weed.
Then spread her knees and said “worship”.
A diamond eyed nymph,
Raised her whip, before she strikes my skin,
She asked.
“When you stand before thy lord, will it all have been worth it?”
I said.
I know Jesus died for our sins,
Then he rose up again,
to bring all sadness to an end and to shine light on the evil within.
Last Sunday I heard this.
But it’s Saturday night,
We pop pills to find purpose.
These kids pop pills to heal where the hurt is.
The dance floor neon lights shine bright, I think the bouncer let the Holy Ghost in.
Buy the Holy Ghost a drink, he got all the girls twerking.
We party until dawn or Jesus returns, whichever comes first kids.
A youth culture rebels with no direction.
Instagram filter models still lack perfection.
Notepad forgive me for I have sinned, this poetry is my confession.
This poetry is a modern third testament.
Do we deserve it?
Do I deserve it?
Will I find out in church?
Shit!
That next morning,
I showed up two hours late, hungover to Sunday service.