Friday

I've prayed to an all-knowing God every single day, the one who controls all thoughts and actions.

To which every man must bow down to, to which every soul will be laid out to.

To the God who can control the past and future.

For if this God ceases to exist, my wallows will be left unheard.

My eyes weep for the sight of the rarest flower, protected by thorns and bushes.

His eyes find me in the darkest corners, and we stand there for seconds, in place of hours, in solitude.

My eyes wander to his budding lips, mimicking the tinge of a rose garden.

Then up to his nose to his eyes, to his hair, and then the ground.

The ground gets the longest attention.

With closed I eyes I pray once again to an all-knowing God, both that he disappears and stays.

And the answer is clear once I see the light once again, it's someone else's face.

In my drunken stupor, I search a hundred faces for once like his.

Open my ears to hear a voice like his.

The only voice I hear is from a distance, of my name, my same being said so sweetly.

And that's when I feel the tinge of pain spread through my chest and into my throat.

The voice is no longer clear, it keeps fading.

Again I am alone in a room full of drunk people, praying to God with a drink in my hand, promising him this is the last one I'll ever have if he returns my flower to me.

Nor does the drink move, neither does my faith, yet a part of me knows nothing will change.
 
Maybe god inst all-knowing, in control of every thought or action.

But believing he is, gives me the hope everything will get better.