Flawed Type of God

I am composed of the vernacular known as god,
Limitless with potential and limitlessly flawed.
I walk myself up hills,
Slip on banana peals,
Then return to my feet with the sounds of a native flute.
I make myself home in a kingdom of self constraints, then rebel.
A famous author I know calls it, "living in hell".

I smile for no reason,
Laugh underneath my breath,
Its a deceiving site,
For I cry behind the curtain from my heart being torn.

Violet rays of light illuminate inner silence as I surf purple gong waves to heal from the violence.
I wear a special shirt when I misbehave,
That is the rule, but..
I break it.
Underneath my lies I'm naked and unafraid.
I play myself like a game,
Until the wisdom catches,
I'll settle for being sane.
I'm honest when its safe and passionate with my lies,
Self preservation comes at a price.

The mask is my game.
The past is my vice.
Setting fire to the rules is my self abuse.
Silence is my remedy.
Addiction is my noose.
Poetry is my charm.

I am (followed by (any word here)) is my indulgence,
The absorption of which has paid for escaping the creation of my art.
My word is a pen and the pages are everyone's hearts.
From mine to their's,
The circle is complete with language in between, my mission...
To read the sacred geometry,
The vernacular known as god,
But until then, laugh...
For being so flawed.