The Bastard Gospel

I am not misunderstood.

I am perfectly understood —

just inconvenient to accept in behaved daylight.

A devil’s love child, carved from charm

and caffeinated arrogance.

Not the tortured artist —

just the one who got away

with calling manipulation “metaphor.”

I don’t pen words.

I write spells

disguised as sincerity.

And I cast them

with the same tongue

that’s talked lovers into beds,

friends into betrayals,

and strangers into applause.

You think I’m raw?

That’s curated chaos.

Every pause, every punchline —

engineered like a con

to make you feel seen,

while I rob you blind

of doubt, dissent, and disbelief.

I don’t bleed in verses.

I bottle blood

and sell it as vintage.

My humour? Weaponized.

My poetry? Preloaded.

I know exactly which word to drop

to make your heart twitch,

your thighs ache,

your trauma resurface,

your ideologies weep.

And I rarely miss.

Even devils have bad moments —

I know you thought I’d rather say

“even Gods have bad days.”

But God built the world in a week.

I call that more miss than miracle.

A stretched-overstretch

masquerading as omnipotence.

You see what I did there?

As I said — I rarely miss.

Because I don’t speak —

I aim.

And my silence?

It’s just me reloading.

I say I hate small talk —

what I mean is:

I refuse to pick breadcrumbs

off the floors of mediocre minds

just to appear polite.

I’ll come off as a cocky bastard —

intentionally.

Because arrogance is quicker

than explaining

why you bore me.

You think I’m arrogant?

You should see me on stage —

reading a room like scripture,

dissecting souls

with the precision of someone

who’s already calculated

who’s clapping sincerely

and who’s waiting to be wrecked.

I don’t blend in.

I glitch.

A neurodivergent ripple

in your predictable pond.

Where you see people,

I see reasons to be hopeless —

and a hundred thousand answers

to why murder seems misunderstood.

Where you see conversation,

I see hollow existences

clinging to faith

like infants to a breast

that’s already run dry.

This brain?

Dysfunctional apathy

masquerading as philosophy.

A freak of an existence

tuned into patterns

you won’t notice

until I’ve already rearranged the room

with one sentence.

I don’t believe in divinity.

But I’ve played god —

in conversations,

on stage,

in bedrooms,

in the minds of people

who called me “revolutionary”

while I quietly calculated

what they’d trade

for being understood.

I say I despise sellouts.

But between you and me —

if cults came with royalties

and apostasy had a subscription model,

I’d write a sermon

so seductive

you’d beg to sell your trauma to me.

I’m not a contradiction.

I’m a confession

delivered with a smirk.

I know I’m a bastard —

a conniving, persuasive,

neurospicy, literary bastard.

And I’ve turned guilt into gold

since the day I discovered

that people confuse

precision with poetry,

and manipulation

with meaning.

So no —

don’t romanticize me.

Don’t pity me.

And for god’s sake,

don’t fucking forgive me.

I already did —

years ago,

with a grin sharp enough

to slice regret open

and watch it bleed relevance.

I’m not writing to be loved.

I never have. I never will.

I’m writing to be inevitable.

To echo.

To haunt.

To carve myself into the throat of memory

like a song that offends

but never fades —

a stubborn, bitter aftertaste.

And if you feel seen —

if you feel ruined —

if you feel like clapping but can’t tell why?

Good.

I was aiming for the part of you

you thought no one could touch.

Now live with my fingerprint.

Because I own you.

I am your god.

And I am your devil.