Sixty-Third Entry

Welcome back, your dreams were your ticket out....



Here's my poem:

PRAYER FOR A MINNOW WHO DID NOT DIE

I'm a mess who needs to stop going to confession.
A while ago I didn't do my penance and now I'm paying for it.
While I'm sinning, I like to watch the creatures squirm in the creek.
I'm on the bank counting money gained from loan-sharking and drugs.
On that topic I never say much, what drugs I do, how much, how often.
That a minnow can survive in the muck of the creek is uplifting to me.
A thing like prayer is useless if you don't know how to pretend to believe.
Thing is, I like the unhealthy color of the creek for some reason.
Is that odd? I've often been attracted to muddy greens like that.
That is why I don't pray that often, I feel I'm some sort of subversive weirdo.
Is it time for me to abandon all hope in the church and enter "here"?
It (the church) hasn't helped me the way that parents do; invisibly.
The time spent praying could be spent throwing dice and making money.
Time is like a prison guard. It's not very nice and it won't let you escape.
Is swimming natural for the minnow? Is it something it has to learn?
Swimming gracefully as a child made me feel innocent for once.
Gracefully I slit a loan shark's throat and later wash my hands.
I dump the body in the crick, say a worthless prayer for myself.
Dump or not, the ghetto near the church is where I've lived my life.
Or most of it anyway, the parts not concerning the creek I don't count.