Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
talking of despair,
so many suicidal,
so many depressed,
better to return to nature
watch the birds,
see the moon,
mesmerising stars,
lifting me out of this gloom.
Some daily selections
one caught in malediction.
Maybe  settled for the fiction,
that God doesn't exist,
have all here, embraced the diminishing tide,
death cult, baal worshipping
Outside, green shoots emerge,
thinking of cancelling this subscription,
with rising sun,
new horizons,
future bright,
with these pages
almost done.
In another timeless place,
floating high above in space,
God won.
sometimes i think hello poetry is a hang out for satanists , sadists, and atheists,
I have compassion for the genuinely depressed, sometimes here though it seems that some are goading and suggesting to others that this is what they should do, the dark arts of suggestion makes me wonder , is there a 'underground club' at play, I don't think I belong in this place
God won
If I pleaded
enough would
you come and see

lord, step down
from the altar
straighten the
rusted brass
of your joints

when your titan
feet meet the ground
and the earth trembles
again with the promise
of another god’s vengeance

then only will the weak
open their blinds
curtains to the side
outside again
walking down to meet you
stare at awe
marvel the towering
form of your
angered justice

its been centuries since
we’ve seen you last
when you fooled
us that there was a devil
worse than you

now your golden light
does nothing to the eyes
the mystery gone
with years of unloving prayer

let the stench
of disparity
guide you lord
to the place you forgot
to sing beauty into
the people hated
for being, existing
they turn towards
their sorrow and nurture
it at night
their faces haggred
grey with war and soot
gray with walking and
the eyes of other people
telling them in their dreams
they do not belong here
the land is
named after
it seems to have forgotten
what it was named after
but yet take pride in
the empire they built
the blood of their
injustice still running
in their veins
they feed their children
the skin of their sins
they drink the tears
of centuries long anguish
yet my lord
they still continue
like leeches over wounds
suckling dry
the forgiveness
they receive
let me take you lord
come and see lord
come and see
old men digging
graves for the children
and the children
reaching for
your tired

as you walk past it all.
ConnectHook Jan 5
Darkness slays the sun. Descending, he dies.
To hide his glowing countenance and wait;
Until his resurrection flood our skies
With promise of a greater solar state

Oh mourn and weep, ye gaining shades of night;
An orange sunset lingers in the west.
The trumpet sobs a reveille; the light
Is dwindling on the presidential fest.
And cypresses are sighing in their shame
For Orange Man has forfeited his game.

The technocrats and leftists, as a mass
Opposed his righteous reign with godless spite.
Not once did they relent, but dogged his ***
In jackal-packs still slavering to bite.
And yet he is deplorably adored,
Nor friend nor foe politically bored.

Vile virtue-signalers (with none to show),
Despised all those who dared support his plan;
And prideful with each whining coward blow
Confirmed themselves inferiors to the man.
Pink feminists, at odds with all that's right
Displayed themselves as ******* in the fight.

They could not stand the mention of his name.
The Globalists and other Euro-trash,
With Luciferian bankers, void of shame,
Resume their one-world plotting in a flash;
Preparing for re-set. (We wish they would
Let God reset them for their own **** good.)

So DRUMPF's Fourth ***** must sadly reach its end,
And Jared's **** wife return her shoes.
His Völkisch warriors shall no more defend
Republics that weak RINOs all refuse;
And Milquetoast Mitt, and Bush, his parting hail
Grown tired of winning, longing yet to fail.

My Einsatzgruppen uniform: no more
To wear the holy garment in my pride.
My shimmering hood and robe I now must store;
Well-pressed, I lay them tearfully aside.
My lynching rope I coil with loving care,
My Ku-Klux armband nevermore to wear.

Alas, the fascist father-figure goes;
His bigot minions, all my own, lament.
Misogynists and racists at the close
Have lost their weary way and all is spent.
He wasn't dictatorial enough;
We all grew tired of winning. It was tough.

But wait; a zephyr stirs the orange grove.
The dusk has not yet sighed its final breath:
Once more a scent of citrus wafts above . . .
Twas' premature, their festival of death.
Then TRUMP arises, grinning, from the bier
And all who who wished him gone recoil in fear.

Fresh horror now the adversaries sweeps;
The trembling crypts foreshadow his rebirth.
Progressive politics despairs and weeps
While liberal dread supplants their vengeful mirth.
Then Donald rises, leering like a ghost
To fill with panic every heartless host

Mere hopium, this horror-movie plot.
It looked like he might pull it off— but no.
Now darkness teaches light what it is not
And half the nation jeers at him to go.
Healing urged—but fake. Polarization
Shall characterize our waning nation.

Hopes of resurrection vanish with night. 
The scapegoat's legions waken from the dream
To seek nocturnal solace from the fight:
The tepid normie water's middle stream.
And Q-**** numerologists learn code.
(The rest of us just wonder what we're owed.)

Saint Orange must diminish, half-impeached;
And sunset velvet now becomes his hue.
The ballot urns of Georgia never reached;
Our judges sat to stifle what we knew.
The monoparty's monkeys steal the show;
His puppet masters hiss him. Let him go.

Now Dixie's juiceless orchards sing his dirge.
The willows hang their boughs in leafless grief . . .
Disgust for all the traitors starts to surge;
And clown-world tries but cannot bring relief.
Orange Savior's promise: undelivered;
The funeral expires—and all is withered.
Thanks to my muse for alternate stanzas !
ConnectHook Dec 2020
Dr. Ron, a Maulana appointed
was an Afrikan king (self-anointed).
While his roots went un-vetted
his followers fêted . . .
But Kwanzaa was somewhat disjointed.
I’m dreaming of a black Kwanzaa . . .
Let Ron Karenga show you how.
Where the kente’s shining, there’s Afro-whining,
and ghetto thugs quote Chairman Mao.

I’m dreaming of a black Kwanzaa
with each Swahili word I lack;
may your ethno-hubris never slack
and may all your Kwanzaa fruits be black…
ConnectHook Dec 2020
most of these comments, poets,
Just like most comments on CensorTube
ConnectHook Dec 2020
We a go chek di vibe
we a warriah
an wi haffe rock wit di riddim

In dis dub reveleshan
Inna dread dispensation

Of di medical marijuana
Fi all di white bway dem

Fi all di white knights
Of Nyabinghi Babylon

Fi all dem ***** smokahs
Who dwell
In perpetual fog
Of night
Next page