A Holy Release

I compose small blocks of text.
Call them by whatever name
You find more or less correct,
They're the same. They save me pain.
Honesty, dishonesty
Can coexist within them,
Allowing me to breathe free,

Or a little more freely.
The thought is secondary
To the relief; the relief
Is tertiary to faith
That acts of composition
Can carry kernels in them
Of futures rooted in them.