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Name: Can I Pay You To Tell Me I Am Not Alone
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Can I Pay You To Tell Me I Am Not Alone

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Can I Pay You To Tell Me I Am Not Alone

TheRealLazar

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Can I Pay You To Tell Me I Am Not Alone
by TheRealLazar

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Poem: Eternal Return

“I was born into a battlefield— not one with flags and borders but with spirits and secrets, With tears tucked in family lines and fears stitched into silence, and my mother, gripped by a sense of something holy, sped through every red light after a clinic appointment to keep me alive, dedicated me to God before I could speak, appointed. I remember tambourines and tongues, fire in the pews, strange the emotions buzzing like neon in a world drowning in cocaine and pop songs, raised by a tribe of outlaws and veterans, mystics and misfits, carried through the chaos by a grandmother who met Jesus through a TV screen and gave me the Beatitudes on a bookmark I still keep in my bible, worn like my soul. I was a punk with a mohawk, running from parties to parking lots to pain I couldn’t name, hiding bruises behind graffiti, burying grief in guitar riffs, finding love in a broken girl and breaking under the weight of it, losing weight, losing sleep, losing hope, diagnosed with something I couldn’t explain and medicated into a fog for 10 years where God seemed either silent or imaginary. I searched everywhere— through brushes with the occult and cults, through false prophets and perennialism, But the only thing that ever cracked the numbness It was when I opened my mom’s old Bible And the words didn’t just talk—they burned. I found a gospel outreach with couches instead of pews, songs with dancing instead of judgment, books that whispered grace louder than condemnation, and slowly, the walls I had built out of hurt began to fall. But it wasn’t enough to know grace—I wanted roots. So I begged God: “Give me the ancient paths.” And he did—through saints with names I could barely pronounce, through podcasts and prayers, through liturgies older than empires, through a priest who didn’t flinch when I unloaded decades of mess, through incense that felt like heaven’s smoke rising from the rubble of my life. I met Jesus again—the One who walks through locked doors, who bleeds beauty, Who built a Church established since 33 a.d, I was baptized into a Church that doesn’t flinch, doesn’t bend, doesn’t forget. A Church that remembers how to suffer, to pray, to sing, to stay. I am TheRealLazar. I write for the wanderers, the wounded, the outcasts, and lost souls. And I’ve found my way home.” - Thereallazar

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