A Few Reasons Why: I’m Not Religious


All Sundays I was woken

rather dragged out from my bed,

and told I should get ready

for enlightenment ahead.

A suit for me,

a dress for her,

a book in all our hands.

We’ll go as one, together

as we partake in His great plan.

Into our car collectively,

our neighbors do the same

we brave whatever weather

wretched Satan sends our way.

We sit within our normal pew

the same zealots all around us.

The bishop rises, hymns begin,

the doctrination’s as thus:


“Bring your trials — tribulations,

bring your hopes and your desires.

Bring your questions to find answers,

for He is the great supplier.

We will sit here all as one —

our families and theirs.

We’ll sing songs of God’s one son,

and we will offer up our prayers.

Sacraments we’ll call them —

partaken symbols of a man,

who died so long ago

so that we’d fulfill His plan.

And then we’ll get together

in smaller groups we will discuss

the meaning for this life of ours

why we aren’t just simply dust.

And then we’ll all go home

and we will ask you to remember —

that feeling you just felt inside —

remember it forever.”


As the time began to pass

I knew I didn’t fit the plan;

That God had once set out for me

and I could not understand.

I liked so many things

that would send me straight to hell

but in them — I saw no evil

still I tried to never dwell.

But all my friends and family

would speak of every day

was the atrocities of people

who on a later date would pay.

For what evil are they paying

Oh god, why won’t you answer?

What harm is there in who we are?

Where is your loving candor?


These people look at my tattoos,

with condescension on their face.

They act like I’m not worthy

to be of the human race.

“Your hair’s too long, your clothes too tight,

to mark you a true man.”

Not once will they consider,

that I’m only who I am.

“Earrings are for girls,” they’d say,

“Short hair is for the men.

Guys and girls together, yes

to that we’ll say a-men.”

They have an answer for each thing in life

the good — the bad — the just —

they say my morals are as nothing for:

they come not from above.


“But morals must be changeable

your platonic universe is not!

The morals of your beloved gods

should cease to e’er be sought.

I know to you it is not natural —

your God makes no mistakes.

He would never miss the gender that

the sperm and egg create.

You say gender is the marker

that is given at our birth,

what genitalia is present

is the mark of our true worth.

The body we could not control

seeks now to govern us.

It has wounded me so deeply

far beneath the surface.

Do you think you can relate?

To the questioning each day?

To the looking in the mirror

with hate for what’s displayed?

Can you imagine spending every day

a voice inside your head?

Telling you what’s right and wrong

and how you mustn’t tread?

Acting all your life as though

you’re someone you are not,

while all the girls demonstrate

the life you’ve always sought?”


I try to ask them kindly,

why they hate all those like me.

“We love you all!” they ensure,

“We have no enemies!”


But comment boards and Facebook

and Twitter all resolve:

the sentiments they’ve fed me

are not the truth at all.


All Sunday’s now, I stay in bed

what happened to my friends?

I cannot say too surely — but,

it seems of me they’ve now been cleansed.

Of those who still remain

within my friendship circle,

I cannot be myself with them

so I present you my rehersal.