Parched

Parched as I am I do not think
I’ll take a drink from you.
I’m not a fan of your saintly ways,
how the gays cause hurricanes,
in your eye,
that piercing optical orb,
able to see a written God
who happens to suit your convenient lie.

I’ll not shake your dirty hand
to rule a land I do not own.
I’ll take the huge and evil risk
to frisk and frolic in the grass
as I might,
with genders equal of each kind,
simple partnerships with a loving sign,
and work instead for what is right.

Parched as I am I do not think
I’ll take a drink with you in sight.

The same

We’re not the same
You and I
For I am nothing.

I will not grow a beard
Nor wear a cap upon my skull
Nor wrap my head except how I please
And, no doubt, as you can tell,
I will freeze until,
I eventually burn in hell.

I will not sink on bended knees
To the absent air
Nor sing songs in a wealthy house
While the poor go bare,
I will not pray for a better place
Yet sit and stare
At the human race.

You and I are not the same
As I will cease to exist
While your tidings will forever live,
Forever resist
The message
Of not to retaliate
But forgive.

I will not kill
In any name
For any reason cannot be right
There cannot be a fight
In any name
In mine nor His
For I cannot see the message there.

I’m not like you
For I will die
And no honour give
To my soul laid bare.

Bitter