I thrive from my lord's kindness,
I tire myself with prayers,
screaming them,
making sure they are muffled.
The walls of this church are thin,
but no room is church without Him,
as only his presence is adored.
My knees will bruise and scrape,
as long as He is here.
My lord says I'm his goddess,
but mere peasant I see myself as,
or at least use to.
His religion teaches me self love,
through simple compliments,
yet they make my heart shake,
an earthquake awakes my whole body.
It responds with more prayer,
as He returns the favor.
My adoration has payed of,
and my heart feels free again.
I love Him and myself,
because our dynamic isn't that of servant and prince,
but that of King and Queen.
YOU ARE READING
𝗣𝗼𝗲𝘁 𝗠𝗲 𝗔 𝗣𝗼𝗲𝗺
Poetrya collection of letters, poems, and short stories from deep within, a little addiction with it too; welcome to the emotions of the awkward teenage time we all once had.
