pocket gods

everyone judges.

the fat guy scratching his belly on the subway,

the skinny girl bragging about yoga and a clean soul,

the cab driver who hates cyclists,

the priest cursing the gays,

the drunk yelling at the other drunk.

it's easy,

easier than looking in the mirror after a shitty night.

they sit on their plastic thrones

with phones in hand

and fingers ready to stab:

look at that idiot

disgusting clothes

how can he think like that

i’d never do that

of course you would.

you will.

you already do.

but you like to pretend you don’t.

you love playing judge.

that pointed finger.

that face washed clean of guilt.

everyone wants to be a god,

but without holding up the sky,

without creating a damn thing,

just destroying

from their well-dressed misery,

from their ego playing vigilante.

so what?

they judge because they’re scared,

because they’re broken,

because if they don’t point outward,

they’ll have to see the wreck inside.

and that hurts more than any stranger’s sin.

let them.

let them bark.

let them condemn.

i just drink,

and write,

and let the world’s filth

slip through my fingers.

because i didn’t come to this hell

to please anyone.