The Son is in Pain. Where is the Father?

Hurt me.

See if that gets you anywhere.  Your courage is gutless, as you play out your aggressive fantasies on the helpless.  You moan and curse at the slightest inconvenience, because your personal comfort is just so goddamn important.  What you would see succeed in this world, creates partition and social disease.

Go on.

Let it all play out.  I’ll stand here and take it, because I know if I can just endure this pain, then someone or something must come to my aid, must see that your power comes from hate.  I’m not afraid of you, though I recognize the rage behind your eyes; I feel it daily yet choose to have it muzzled and controlled, rather than let it spew freely over anyone less troublesome than myself.

You coward.

There was a time when I even thought I loved you, but you’ve crossed the threshold.  You hide yourself away under false logic and social trends.  You blend, so that you won’t have to see yourself, won’t have to face the work of your own hands.  I sit alone, meditating on my sadness, wishing that the answers would come to me.  How can this go on?  Moment to moment, I dream of ways to kill you.



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