I lie there, uncomprehending the blinding pain that's resides all over,
throbbing aches and marks form in my limbs. A four leafed clover
couldn't bring luck enough to deliver me from these trying times,
thrashing wildly, screaming in silence, showing my agony in mimes,
my wrists implode, and the pain level supercedes that of normality,
my ankles give way to welts, this must be something of immortality,
and my side feels red hot, people crowding in horror, my mind cracks
I become Him, the hospital bed is gone, it's wood against my back.....

hanging here dismally, I survey those who would be my followers,
nails driven into my flesh, treating me as if I'm guilty of heresy,
dressed in dirt and hollow-furs, they spit and curse and beg mercy,
this isn't fair-to-me, but Father prophecized my painful finality,
only their glares hurt-me, their hate for the so called Son of Man,
the Messiah in reality, yet my brothers accuse me of blasphemy,
I'm not one-to-ban, God's people from the gates of Paradise itself,
theives who want-to-be, relieved of their burdens, cleansed of sin,
how could I blaspheme against myself?! they hang beside me helplessly,
so I yell over the din, that they are forgiven if they choose God,
no help-to-me, my beloved mother and close friends weep bitterly,
commiting ultimate fraud, all here must be madder than MorningStar,
the pain, it fits-to-me, like a sensory glove no one will ever see,
the end cannot be far, My God, my God, Why have you forsaken me?!

my lids crack, pain is gone, I lay still on this torture rack,
movement ceased, bandages limbs, brain-activity coming back,
He seemed so real, He was me,it was in no way a hallucination
the full experiance of his death, short lived by Satanic abbreiviation,
I lift a bandage from my forearm, to find a perfect nail-sized hole,
my feet are the same case, unexplained wounds hurting my soul,
and my side is a large slash, a huge itch of body healing magic,
indentation in my skull, a crown of thorns, like a religion addict,
I was crucified, but I never saw a real cross anywhere near me,
other than the one around my neck. they'll all fear what I could be,
The Lord and I were one for painful moments, I felt his agony,
Christ's experiance, but when I said so, my own mother spat at me,
as if these scars are not proof enough, unwanted physical blasphemy....

stigmata Bodily marks, sores, or sensations of pain corresponding in location to the crucifixion wounds of Jesus, usually occurring during states of religious ecstasy or hysteria.
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Peace

__________________
Life isn't a bitch...
she's just sick of being personified -Sage Francis