They say we’ve evolved. I say we’ve just hidden the clubs.

They say we’ve evolved. I say we’ve just hidden the clubs.

In the old days, you got hungry, you clubbed your neighbor and took his goat. Simple. Moses ruined that with 'Thou shalt not kill.' Next thing you know, farmers are forming militias, and the whole world becomes a buffet for bloodthirsty tribes. That’s not progress. That’s organized greed.

They asked me what God wants. I laughed. Who can know the taste of the divine? But I’ll tell you this, God’s got favorites. That’s the only way to make sense of Abel’s blood crying out from the dirt. Cain thought he could charm God with a sack of produce. God wasn’t impressed. So Cain did what we all do when we’re overlooked: he killed the competition.

That’s your blueprint for civilization.

I used to think the path to righteousness was clear. Now I know it’s mud-slick and unmarked, littered with broken compasses and false prophets. If I left a map, you’d follow it into a trap. First, you must heal. Then maybe I’ll carve a breadcrumb trail in starlight.

The Christians say Jesus set us free. Then they built prisons from pulpits and laws out of fear. They traded mustard seeds for matches and set fire to anyone who dared ask questions.

I’ve got two spirits inside me. They don’t play nice. One sings hymns. The other sharpens knives. And the trick, I think, is to fuse them into a third thing, something dangerous and divine.

The government teaches us to fear. God teaches us to trust. Guess who’s winning that tug-of-war?

I won’t be your moral mascot. I won’t wear your leash. My enemies will taste the weight of my prayers, measured and merciless. You think that’s unkind? So is cancer. So is silence. So is doing nothing when you’ve seen the truth.

I want peace, real peace. The kind you build from the bones of war and the ashes of ideology. But you can’t change the world until you’ve wrestled your own demons into submission.

Most people want gold. I say: find God first. Then maybe you’ll understand what to do with gold when it comes.

History’s written by the beasts who win. Saints just leave behind whispers. I’m not here to whisper. I’m here to rattle heaven’s cage.

So go ahead, call me twisted. Mad. Damaged.

But remember I only look like a heretic because the righteous buried the map.