Come to Jesus

Knock at my front door,
I am afraid it's the boogeyman
he is wearing a shroud of humble,
honest caring and a beard of The Gospel truths.
Suffering isn't a pleasurable invitation, but vibrant
like the colors of a horribly nostalgic slasher film. One
that reminds of the past, but warns of better days. He
asks if I want to come along. If it's too good to be truth
it may very well be or it could be the answer to many
long prayers on longer nights from noon til dawn blessings of foot deep
tears and crying out for redemption. Is the argument with myself or with
that asshole that used to live in my mirror or from when I was a child. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray to the Lord my soul to keep. Was it Him or me responsible for the survival. The jury is still out. Come back next week, I may have an answer for ya!