Crying out for some kind of God

That doesn’t exist yet,

Lying here

Crumpled and lifeless 

On the bathroom floor,

Peel me away from myself

So that I can extract 

This overbearing consciousness 

from my every waking breath,

Built these walls and this sink

And these tiles

Upon sunken soil,

Beaneath a crumbling roof,

And painted it white and blue

And called it home

To house the disruptive reasoning,

Slammed a sledgehammer 

Into the foundations

And started anew,

Without consulting or consolidating any other soul,

Slammed down a padlock,

Secured the scope

and called it home,

To wash and flush

My tainted soul

Of the sins of an unsure mind

That trips into puddles

Of self-contaminated riddles

That I can never seem to clean and dry off