The Maverick

I got bruises on my knees when I knelt to pray on the cold floor. The redundant shaking of hands leaves my arm sore.
My fingers got burnt lighting candles of contrition. My eyes are tired from looking up for permission.
My throat is raw from confession. I have headaches from the smell of insense burned for guilty depression.
I turn the pages of the hymnal and they leave my hands bleeding. My chapped lips tremble with my prayers of pleading.
In the safety of the white building I found nothing but another lie. It seems as if this is where truth comes to die.
The book that will save me is heavy in my lap. The red words on the thin pages are starting to feel like a trap.

(unfinished)