A Startling, Sad Note

One of my students found this story / song on the floor. It makes me wish I could do more spiritually at school. Please pray for this person. I will not mention names. So you can call her Jane Doe. Just to warn you there are some bad words in the note, but I wanted to keep it in its true form.

Jesus of Suburbia

I’m the son of rage of love; the jesus of suburbia. The bible of none of the above, on a steady diet of soda pop and Ritalin – no one ever died for my sins in hell – as far as I can tell, at least the ones I got away with. And there’s nothing wrong with me, this is how I am suppose to be. In a land of make believe, I don’t believe in me. In the center of the Earth, in the parking lot – at the 7-11 where I was taught – the motto is a lie. It said “home is where the heart is”, but what a shame, cause everyones heart doesn’t beat the same, it’s beating out of time. City of the dead – at the end of another lost highway, signs misleading to nowhere. City of the damned, lost children with dirty faces today, no one really seems to care. I read the graffiti in the bathroom stall, like the lonely scriptures of a shopping mall – so it seemed to confess.. It didn’t say much but it only confirmed that the center of the Earth is the end of the world, and I could really care less. City of the Dead – at the end of another lost highway, signs misleading to nowhere. City of the damned, lost children with dirty faces today, no one really seems to care. I don’t care if you don’t. I don’t care if you don’t. I don’t care if you don’t care. I don’t care if you don’t. I don’t care if you don’t. I don’t care if you don’t care. Well, I don’t care. EVERYONES SO FULL OF SHIT. BORN AND RAISED BY HYPOCRITES. HEARTS RECYCLED BUT NEVER SAVED, FROM THE CRADLE TO THE GRAVE. WE ARE THE KIDS OF WAR AND PEACE, FROM ANAHEIM TO THE MIDDLE EAST. WE ARE THE _______ AND DISCIPLES OF THE JESUS OF SUBURBIA. Land of makebelieve – and I don’t believe in me. Land of make believe – it don’t believe. Well I don’t care. Dearly beloved, are you listening? I can’t remember a word that you said to me. Are we demented or distorted? The space that’s in between; insane and insecure. Oh therapy, can you please fill the void? Am I retarded or am I just overjoyed? Nobody’s perfect and I stand accused. For lack of a better word, and that’s my best excuse. To live and not to ________, is to die in tradegy. To run, to run away, is to _________. And I _______________________. And I walk this line, a million and one fuckin times, but not this time. I don’t feel any shame, I won’t apologize, where there ain’t nowhere you can go. Runnin away from pain when you’ve been victimized. Tales from another broken home.