Ready to slap the syringe from a latex encased hand.

The power of Christ compels me,
deep inside the outskirts of foresight,
somewhere else in the universe
far from where he came,
despite that I am not a Christian.
Christ hits me like a divine ray that had
pierced through the planets just to reach me,
and amidst revolving efacious desires,
animism blooms on me like chia;
even blank walls will come to life
as fine textures from a coat of paint
instantly morphs into a smiling face
that talks to me and tells me that it’s OK.

Reassuring words to my crestfallen soul, yes — and,
soothing like aloe vera to burnt skin
in light of the mental concaughany
and stream of consciousness disruption
that’s brought host to me by psychic demons.

Light years away from credibility
here on the earth among the human folk,
despite backwards as fuck from where we came,
the threshold of science is magic;
and the spectrum of disavouance is now.
Screaming at the sky, “the earth is flat,”
while pointing at the ground,
stomping on Satan’s roof — although,
I should say Lucifer’s, (or so one may guess,)
as quickly as a crucifix dotted on my chest,
I lost all anger for human beings who bored holes
into my kindred ancestors’ skulls;

now I ache for divine wisdom —
not only for myself but for all mankind,
as fifty years removed from a lobotomy
in the name of man’s bad science,
and two hundred years removed from
recipientless screams beneath chains
in the name of man’s weak heart,
(for which there is never an excuse,)
as the battle for mental health wages onward
and the ethos of healers evolves in kind,
I quietly chew the pills in vain they gave me,
say “Ah,” to the nurse to show her that I swallowed
and I thank God for my good timing.

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