That Book Makes me Uncomfortable

I only talk to you when I'm drunk and in pain.

I only speak of situations I feel I cannot control.

That isn't faith. That isn't belief.

And here I am, talking to myself again.

Thinking it would do me some good,

Thinking it could solve all of my problems,

Thinking it could save me.

But things have never gone my way.

Maybe that's a good thing,

Maybe that's your will.

Maybe that's how you save me.

Maybe I'm ignorant towards you.

Maybe I'm just lonesome.

Maybe I'm unlovable.

Maybe I am not kind.

Maybe.. Just maybe, I should step into your chappel

And maybe, just maybe, I should kneel before your statue and deem you my lord yet you've no proof of your existence, of your power, of your wonders.

Maybe.... I just want something to help me find my purpose.

Maybe I just want to reach my highest of goals.

Maybe I just feel trapped in a society that doesn't give a fuck if I live or die.

Maybe... Maybe one day I'll find happiness.

And maybe, if I'm lucky enough, maybe I'll see what you're truly capable of.