Everybody worships something
or someone, and you are what
you worship. I’m not preaching
though it might sound like it,
I’m just stating what I’ve observed
over the years, mostly in myself,
and what’s strange is that I hate
this truth because it points
me to the darker,
colder places within,
areas best left unexplored,
spaces that confine
though they seem vast.
When I look in the mirror at
my haggard, jaded self, I wonder
if I worship my pain,
whether I’m in love with the
very pus-filled,
emotional sores that
give me so much anguish.
Often, we end up worshiping
someone else, love crossing
into a darker realm of obsession
where daggers glint and smiles
hide malice, but what’s more terrifying
is when we end up worshipping an
idea of someone. Thousands throng
the church, but many believe
in only what they want to believe,
a god in their minds who
is a spiritual manifestation
of themselves with their wants
and desires.
You love her because you see her
as someone she isn’t. You admire
X from afar, thinking he’s got his
life mapped out because he has
Y, but it’s only a fabrication
of the mind, a simulacrum,
a representation, lilies on a
canvas emanating the stench of
acrylic that you think is nature’s
first breath after the rain.
Ordinary Person 
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