Losing My Religion

Don’t worship at my feet, unless you plan to pray and repent—then rinse and repeat.

I’m not perfect. I’m too busy losing my religion with imperfect decisions, drinking too much wine while dancing off beat. And then getting stranded because my man abandoned me.

I guess that makes me a hopeless romantic—a clueless fanatic.

Pretty and pretentious, spending my last five on another glass of red. But I look good while doing it. I may even swing from a Chandelier.

I told you I’m no deity. I don’t have enough dignity.

I’m shallow and shameless, sipping champagne and sliding powders in the back of an Uber while headed to the after hours with a group of losers.

I call that Tuesday.

The perils of inebriated thoughts and an open heart.

Stupid Cupid please stop calling me—manifesting as neighbors seeking dirty favors.

My reservation for living a moral life is because I’m spiritually and emotionally bankrupt.

I believe in finer things. Like the Real Housewives.

But living vicariously through rich white women on reality tv won’t make you happy.

Can’t be a housewife without a husband. Even if you’re doing someone else’s.

Not even a divorce decree could set him free—well, we see.

I believe in the baby Jesus, the single act of turning water into wine made be a true believer.

I’m devout, stout addicted to discounts.

I binge on buses, busboys, and budgets.

I’m like a funhouse on a bad block.

I’m like a gay superhero saving prissy queens in tight blue jeans.

I aspire to live in a lily white cul-de-sac featuring manicured lawns and mini mansions. But a good house and garden won’t fix my problem.

I’m destitute and desperate waking up expecting breakfast.

I’m nobody’s personal Jesus.

If only I could turn that water into wine. I would save thousands.

I feel empty. I give my blood, sweat, tears and cum—and that’s putting it simply.

I’m restless and reckless, stressing out my tresses—playing Russian Roulette like Romeo and Juliet.

My journey is like a night of neglect. That’s like last call with no happy ending.

But times are changing. Will we improve in age like fine wine, or are we just getting older?

I don’t know I haven’t aged in five years.

The road the hell is paved through substances and self-reflection.

It will pass like night.

I’m the local fairy, a little scary when I’m off dairy.

If you want to keep me around I need you to clap for me.

But if you put me on a pedestal—you may have to marry me.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *