False Idols Are The Real Saviours Poem by Christopher P. P. White

Higher powers and moments of weakness;
Guilt is surely the easiest pain to feel
When all you are getting is a vile judgement
From a bunch of wrong Samaritans.

In short, I have burnt many helping hands
And I have also been made aware of these errors
By the gaggle of an unnecessary jury
In a constant battle of reasoning.

When you were on your pedestal,
I was struggling to breathe.

When you were reaching to the sun,
I was feasting on the gravel.

I had to source redemption in others
And I had to find forgiveness in myself.
You were not going to grant me this;
I had wronged you,
Hadn't I?

Let us cut off excuses and fancy monologues.
The truth is,
The only ones I had to save me were the ones
I still believe in.

After all, you abandoned me,
Feeding me to the pack of dogs
That go by the name of horror.

Where were you when I needed to laugh
And find happiness in the darkness?
You weren't there but Bill Hicks was.

Where were you when I needed comforting to the greatest of rhapsodies?
You weren't there but Johnny Cash was.

Where were you when all I needed were
Words of wisdom and poetic rationality?
You weren't there but Charles Bukowski was.

These false idols are the real saviours;
The ones that keep me company
When I need acceptance the most.
I talk in the past tense but I still need
A fable or two from the masterminds
Of every art that matters to me.

Their words are my bible.
Their voices are my guide.
Their sarcasm is my wit.

Let's go get rhythm and drink till dawn.