1000, Cuts

My soul has papercuts from flipping through these scripture pages. 
Each word is life that is simultaneously bleeding me out.
The houses of God are filled with these books and these pages.  
Men standing before you on an elevated stage or screaming razor blades from the street corners. 
Some trying to sever your ties to sins, others trying to sever your money and time. 
There's a boot pressed to my chest in sorrows and the weight feels like solitude.
My breath of life is shallow like smoke in a house fire. 
I am suffocating in my hope, and my love for others. 
Like a weeping mountain top prophet i ache in my purpose.
Like a man with a forgotten face I bow my head in my own shames. 
My eyes look outward to a call back to God, and inward to all the ways i'm not like Him enough. 
I eat these words like bread and I cough out my prayers in repentance. 
The Word of God is the death of me, and it's Truth the only thing that tethers me to life.

Call down fire

 A voice that speaks within my own sound reverberates in my thoughts. The counterfeiter has taken my mind and through the sorrow and grief and solitude that I feel within, he taunts me. "Its only a matter of time until you kill yourself" he, as me, says to and within myself. 
He's sometimes accompanied by the kingdoms he's holding in a choir of disapproval and reminder that I , myself, am not a particularly righteous man. I am intimate with my sins and the chains that hold with contempt. 

God be true and every man a liar. 
As Elijah weeped for death after God called down fire.