GROW FINGERS

I'll write a poem about living, death, or love

I'll scrub up like a doctor

precise and focused,

but my work's dirty, like a poem ought to be

I dont know what else to write,

for 1 billion updoots and 3 trillion follows ill render them (useful)

Written by Growfingers

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

This is my first confession. I guess that’s a sin in and of itself. I wasn’t exactly devout up until recently. I honestly doubt I am now, either. Well, I’ve committed several sins, Father. I’ve lusted, I’m pretty damn lazy, and I certainly eat much more than I should. I’m practically the physical embodiment of the seven deadly sins. Is that part of some biblical text? Or is it some manmade mythos like the layers of hell? No matter. I guess in the symbolic sense of those sins at least, I am them. Though I’m hardly the worst incarnation of them. In reality, I’m just the jack of all trades of those sins. 

But the real reason I’m here, it’s hard to explain. 

I have bad thoughts, Father.

Thoughts that tell me to do things I know I shouldn’t. 

They tell me to kill my father.

Not God, my real, actual father. Though they both are, aren’t they? I guess in my own right, that I’ve also tried to kill God. I’ve tried to push him back; I’ve killed some aspect of him in my mind in the name of intellectual pursuit. That's why I’m here. In the end, God still lives in me. I still have some belief he’s real. I suppose the reason is that I see him every day. Through my eyes, not in the actual physical world. I know he exists because man exists. Man has the capacity to go about his day doing good in the world simply because he desires good to be done. 

And so, I didn’t kill my father. Despite the thoughts.

Despite my hatred,

my contempt,

my passion,

He’s still kicking. He won’t die, not because of my hatred. 

And so, I believe God exists. He probably hates me, doesn’t he? We probably say he loves us just to feel a semblance of purpose in our suffering. We tell ourselves that we feel pain for the good of ourselves, and in some way, that may be true. But like many things we do, it’s probably just some silly coping mechanism. Despite all that, though, I know he’s real. I know it more than the senses that rattle in my skull, telling me what should be real. Father, have I sinned? Or is God just mad at me? I mean, I didn’t start this. He did. Not me.

What if, Father,

To God, 

Wherever you are,

A closer version because I like the way I drew his face

(I'm arrogant)

Hi

Hello again

A “teaser” for some comics to come