Schizophrenic Intercessor

 
How do I bridge the gap in the chasm of these words I utter into the void?
Prayers spoken to brass heavens waiting on answers in transit, stifled by unencumbered hindrances

When I play god in one sided conversations forging faith in the hope of my own expectations
What’s the prognosis when professions are on life support
Inactions suffocating words
Symptoms are the evidence we quantify to fortify anxiety

Going to war with high things that exalt themselves
Imaginations of this sabotage
The word is the chiropractor of these thoughts that are out of alignment

Do we want the cure or just the sedation of the injections of these numbing agents
As sins become failing tourniquets broken upon application
I bleed out unseen, making war with myself as I fight desire with desire and substitute will power for the weapons of this spiritual warfare

My ways are my own sabotage but it doesn’t keep me from playing god
What is faith in light of our desperation
Whether of confidence or pleasure bargains on the premise of begging for bread crumbs of life

Self mutilating by way of the sword as I whittle my heart out of stone
Show me how to amputate these growths that mimic limbs when sight is the tumor whereby we see everything through the lens of cancer

Two versions divided of me when I am a kingdom that cannot stand on my own two feet
Trending instability immolating the culture
As I circle my dying conscience like an immoral vulture

I cannot cure myself when I am my affliction
Yet I fall for self sufficiency when independence becomes just another part of the addiction

Self projected anger finds bullets in the chamber when God is on trial for all the ways that I fail me
Circling these mountains in the politics of graces taken for granted
The tolerances of enablement that masquerades as mercy
Coming to terms with my own lies as ego is gradually disenchanted

Writing these letters of my own benediction bottled up and launched from the depths of my own heart
What is true of me and what is the counterfeit self composed of a flesh perspectives counterpart

Pleading through the Freudian slips that speak through typos of truth’s intervening call
Keep me in repairs till the wine skins break and I’m transformed into something that can contain
As I drink in the promise like intoxication’s of clarity in true love like heavens alcohol
To not only mask but cure by way of a divine bloodstain

Culprit and detective, investigations forged of a witch hunt to be burned at the stake
Who might’ve known that I was who I was accusing all along when lumbar is the sight of sore eyes

I’m the hybrid of the heel of the Healer and a tongue like a snake
The pendulum swinging back and forth gradually calibrating till the venom in my heart dies…