Social Confessional


I may have sinned, but I won’t ask your forgiveness.
The truth is I’ve only tried to emulate you,
Acting without scruples in your manner,
But I still stand in awe of you:
How you blaze a trail of ruin,
Leaving flowers to wither and vegetation to rot.
You don’t possess a conscience;
Perhaps that’s why I feel so good
When I slander your name across the universe.
Never before have I sought vengeance,
But I confess now that every wound I inflict—
Stealing what you hold most dear—
Brings a sickening satisfaction to my mind,
And when those thoughts lull me to sleep
They are the best sleeps I ever know.


Frankly, My Dear


I’ve tried so hard to hate you,
But every time I muster a mote of loathing
Or contrive the basest slander against your character,
My tongue ties into knots or I stumble;
And I know that for all my wishing,
I could never bring myself to defame you,
Though it would be so much easier if I could.
You would have me fixate on the profane
To prove you’re worthless
(Maybe you think it would be easier that way),
But my eyes have stripped away the horrors
Your acts of depression, revenge, or apathy have wrought.
That’s not who you are—
I refuse to believe that—
No matter what they tell you;
They’re dead wrong, but they wouldn’t know,
Because those who don’t look beyond flesh
Have no compassion for others.
You’re the kind of person I would die for,
But to be honest I’d much rather live for you,
Stand by your side to help you up when you misstep,
And you could do the same for me.
But since I sit here, deprived of your glory,
I wring my heart like a wet cloth
To squeeze a drip of hatred,
And always come up short.
It’s just that your sins are trivial in light of your grace,
And I couldn’t care less how high they stack;
They won’t matter when we’re dead, anyway.

Nefarious Emissary


This is what happens when we play with fire:
We burn bridges down
Because we trifle with things we don’t understand.
As hard as I tried,
I could never fathom you
Or comprehend your virulent mechanisms.
In retrospect, it’s so easy
To say I was unjustly tasked with this onus,
But not all of us are interested in the easy choice;
And besides, I accepted my charge with verve.
But now I stand accused of treason
And have been found guilty by the Mother of Pearl,
Who even now tortures me with the wails of a banshee,
To remind me of the promise I broke,
The assurance I could not fulfill,
And the sins that will never be forgiven.
I thought I could be more than a corrupt courier,
A nefarious emissary
Prophesying apocalypse,
But in these narcissistic attempts at aid
I lost sight of the glory before me;
Now my tongue has been cut out
And I drown myself in the lamentations
Of zombified souls reeking with self-pity,
Accepting the embrace of the hollow,
The dead,
The solitary.

The Sins We Cannot Forgive


Art by Tab109

In spite of the pomp and confidence
You exude every waking moment,
Your silence is baffling;
Nary a sound slips from your tongue,
At least not in my presence,
Because your words are reserved
For the debased and debauched
Who would only drag your soul
To the depths of a hell you think you crave.
When once we were soldiers,
Commanding nothing but our private legion—
Because we needed nothing or no one else—
You personified nobility,
And not a person who laid eyes upon you
Could ever deny it;
But your eyes lay not on me any longer,
And whether it’s because of your sin or guilt,
You cannot bear to look me in mine,
Perhaps for fear you will expose your shame
Even as you feign contentment.
But I’ve seen into your soul, friend,
And no reassurance or prose
Will convince me of your state;
You are damned, shackled to a fate
That you have only yourself to blame for,
And though God may forgive all sins,
We are not in heaven and I am not God.

Wounding an Angel

Bleeding angel

This is what happens
When anger collides with compassion:
An eddy of rage
Coalesces with a river
Formed from dissonant tears
To compose emotions obfuscate and cacophonous;
In the end, I’m left paralyzed,
Dubious of which step will be my last,
Praying to a god both deaf and mute
That it will be the next.
Try as I might,
I have no one else to blame this purgatory on;
I alone shoulder the responsibility of this suffering
That has extended beyond myself,
Infecting angels I once deemed untouchable;
I can no longer face those crestfallen eyes,
Knowing what carnage I have wrought
In the pursuit of my own desires—
But I am a selfish creature
Baseless, with no regard for others,
As long as my own thirst is quenched.
The price of this gambit
Is paid in an angel’s blood
And not my own,
And for that I weep and apologize,
Screaming contritions that will never be heard,
Aware that no penance will ever reap reconciliation.
Unable to bear the weight of my sins,
And too impuissant to face the devastation they have rendered,
I turn away from the angels—
My only means of salvation—
And give myself up to hell,
Because it’s all I deserve.
Because I’m a coward.

Living Horrors

Do not shower me with your adulations;
They are acrimony to mine ears.
Your effete efforts to boost my ego
Only serve as japes to remind me of what I am in your eyes:
Nothing real
Nothing worth giving yourself to,
Only a caste to fill with catastrophe and dejection.

Were I robbed of innocence—
Debauchery transmuting your living horrors
And unscrupulous scandal—
Would you have me then?
Hollow are the words I speak
To the conformation of your solace,
Elsewise you would have me mute,
For the truth is a dagger to your ears.

I am your dutiful mannequin;
Project the terrors of your existence onto me,
Won’t you?
Plastic and armless I am,
With no defense but a look and impassivity:
Your wondrous work of art.

Blind you would have me
To the iniquity of your darkest hours,
To shield me from the sin I know too much of,
Or to eschew a judging eye?
But I know all, like an oracle of tragedy,
Each omission from your darkest hours;
And an eye doth I possess, to see all,
Even that which shames you the most.

Within the Shadow

Shadow of the Colossus artwork

Another one down;
Another one to surmount the guilt.
In this field of giants, what am I but a speck?
I am a plague, a darkness upon this forbidden land,
Rife with abominations,
But when the corpses mount the pile,
I am a titan among insects.

Hear me! father of the land:
I never wished for this fate.
With each transgression committed
I see myself more and more a beast,
An occupant of the greatest evil;
But if you come for me, beware:
I am the slayer of monoliths.

Is this a boast?
With each stab I feel my heart flutter,
Panged as though I were piercing myself.
These ululations of lament transmute,
Become tirades of anger and self-deprecation,
And though salvation may be won in the end,
Forgiveness is far beyond me.

In this silent prison—
This empty haven—
The beauty brings me to my knees,
Prayerful before the cursed altars,
Trembling for fear of the unknown:
The next monumental conflict—
An epic struggle.

There is no one to share the pain,
No one to comprehend the strife within;
Just my soul and a spurned god
And a cadaver awaiting resurrection.
Alone I embark, alone I succeed,
Alone I witness the horrors wrought by my hand
And the tragedies left in their wake.

But of all the atrocities enacted,
Yours, my fathers, were the worst.
And so to cast blame,
Only gaze into these hallowed pools
And witness the ripples of reflection.
For as much as I abhor what I’ve done,
I would herald the death of a thousand guardians
To undo the blessing bestowed for your sacrifice,
And see this dead beauty walk again.

*Special thanks to Fumito Ueda and his masterpiece for the inspiration for this writing