Easter

I won't retrace my steps for you.


Second guessing myself like the second coming of Christ,
your god-like figure looming large.

You must not think much of me.
To spew the way you do turning me into a 13 year old;
angst ridden poetry.

I will wipe my slate of you.



You must not think much of yourself.
Being your own antithesis.
This Easter while I hunt for eggs you will reenact the death of Christ.


What makes you think yourself God?