Toxic honey

My soul cries out as I sit in the pew,

while the pastor’s voice turns my insides blue.

Their words drip sweet on gentle tones—

but every syllable is carved from bone.

May Heaven forgive me for not playing along,

for hearing the hymns and feeling them wrong.

They preach of “righteousness,” “truth,” and “light,”

but use it to shadow what isn’t white.

My soul mourns for them, it truly does—

for their world is so small, just them and their God above.

They are birds repeating what they’ve been told,

mimicking sounds without a soul.

Like clever crows who drop their stones

just to earn what’s barely thrown—

trained to perform for hands that tease,

held captive by a faith that feeds.

It’s sad to watch—young and old still pray,

not knowing what silence might answer one day.

To speak with that God would be a day stained gray—

a hollow meeting with nothing to say.

They wield their words like sharpened knives,

belief like fire, and call it life.

They beckon close with outstretched hands—

but curse the ones who don’t meet their demands.

Their smiles drip like toxic honey—

sweet on the lips, but false and funny.

They mask their spite with songs of peace,

while longing for the unbeliever’s grief.

And still, they cry “We’re persecuted!”

while churches rise on every street.

They trample rights, ignore the dead,

and plant their flags where demons bled.

They step on corpses, crush those who grieve,

and cheer for pain they won’t believe.

All while shouting “We're under attack!”

as they stab from thrones and never look back.