Confessions Of An Unpardonable Bastard

There are optimists,

pessimists,

realists,

and then there are the rest —

those too spineless to choose a delusion,

so they call it nuance

and masturbate to moderation.

And then there’s me —

a truthsawyer.

Not a philosopher.

Not a poet.

A professional blasphemer

with a bone saw where my faith should’ve been.

I don't beseech truth. 

I dissect them.

I don’t seek answers.

I amputate them.

I ask questions

until your God stutters,

your ideology sweats,

and your inherited wisdom

starts looking like the incest it always was.

Because belief —

is the most overhyped narcotic in circulation.

You snort it as prayer,

you shoot it up through rituals,

and call it legacy

just because your ancestors

didn’t know how to think without supervision.

I’ve seen too many people

wearing conviction like cologne —

hoping the stench hides the rot.

But I don’t wear perfume.

I drag the corpse of every lie

into the middle of your living room,

slap on a spotlight,

and ask:

Does this smell like God to you?

I interrogate everything.

Faith,

because it’s lazy.

Hope,

because it’s addictive.

Love,

because it wears too much makeup.

Patriotism,

because it demands blood

but never bleeds itself.

I’ve carved into nationalism

until I found genocide.

I’ve scraped away gender

and found capitalism playing dress-up.

I’ve dissected family

and found the fossil of guilt

next to a dagger named “duty.”

They say,

“There’s beauty in belief.”

I say,

“There’s fungus in it too.”

And it spreads.

Between generations.

Between scriptures.

Between your legs

and your laws.

And still,

they call me unhinged

because I won’t chant the hymns,

won’t kneel to convenience,

won’t fake a moral erection

just to feel righteous in a room full of sheep.

But I’m not unhinged.

I just refused to be housebroken.

I’ve tasted truths

so sour,

they cracked my teeth.

But I chewed anyway.

Because somebody’s got to digest

the lies the world keeps plating as enlightenment.

I don’t speak truth.

I carve it.

With unwashed hands,

and a grin that offends gods.

Because I am not here

to convert you.

I’m here

to dismember the comfort you pray inside of.

So go on —

keep your gods, your flags, your ethics

pressed between pages and pulpits.

Light your incense.

Quote your prophets.

Stroke your traditions

until they climax into comfort.

And when you're done

pretending truth is tidy and kind,

I'll be waiting

at the altar of your denial

with a hacksaw and a question.

Because truth?

It doesn’t set you free.

It sets you on fire.

And I am the arsonist

who laughed

while lighting the match.