**I wrote this poem some years ago. I’d forgotten I had it. Only recently when sorting through a bundle of A4 paper that had been in a corner of the room for ages did I find it again. It’s a little surreal reading something you yourself wrote years back. I think it bears the hallmarks of someone not quite used to poetry but finding it a useful vessel of expression.**
Here it is:
Angry at God
How could you do that I shouted at God
I hate you I hate you, you’re nothing but a fraud
It’s all so unfair and you never take the blame
If you had any decency you would feel such shame
But now I’m exhausted, my anger burned through
I don’t want to pray, want nothing to do with you
But when I look around at the alternatives on show
I see to my horror, there’s nowhere else to go
So I turn back to face you, a prodigal child
Reluctant and unwilling, emotions running wild
I sit and I cry, my face in the dust
And wait for the ability, once more to trust
You take all my anger and furious rage
Then wait till I’m ready, my heart to engage
And then when my fury has all drained away
You tenderly guide me, back home to stay
As I say, I wrote this some year ago. I can’t even recall what event in my life prompted these words, except that it must have been something I was angry at God because of.
Feel free to comment, or not.
Thanks for reading.