by Jesse Wintonyk
I question your God, my heart, and my soul
Existence needs proof, in stories I'm told
But I sit here and cry, lacking gratification
While others have died, solely for their religion
So why do I cry? If I do not believe
What makes me doubt, I can not conceive
Is it power above? Or in my own heart
where these feelings are born, I know not where to start
Is God just a form of societal ethic?
Or is God a true being, to be viewed as angelic
It is nature to question, but with no answers received
I am still hanging, what can I achieve?
In need of assistance, I cry out in vain
I am a lost child, my doubts will retain
But I fear for my death, for what will remain
please help . . . for I fear I am already slain.