fake
I hear your words These lies I've been told A thousand times I've collected memories of The fake that comes With religion And religious people Making me aware Of how different I am From everyone else.
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A soft wind blows s the mourners gather beneath a bright green tent: the casket in the center. Some of the people cry as the last words is said by a grieving wife. That is my mom, the drama queen, ready to spill her guts whenever called upon. Today we gather to remember my dad, but no one is here for him. He was just a minor character in a Dickens novel. The world would not take notice of the passing of such a man if it were not for those he left behind. A funeral is no more than a moment for the living to cry out loud, gathered in groups around a dead body, and not feel the need to hide the tears. The tears not shed for the deceased, in most cases, but rather it’s some personal grievance that has these mourners in tears. Maybe it is the reminder of the passing of someone that they truly loved. A slight hint of rain is in the air. My mother forces a thick red coat around my shoulders between sniffles. She never looks at me and her gaze seems vacant. She is not looking at any...
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