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V Sep 2017
The man behind the window,
Watches the religious preachers pass,
"Oh no, not again..." he worries,
"Now what will they ask?"

He hides as if they do not know,
He ignores the world outside,
He stays silent and distant,
No, he isn't home, he denies.

The sound of his door-bell can be heard throughout his whole house,
This time it's louder than usual, like a cat yeowl to a mouse.

He stays put for one moment, then two, then three,
What he least expected was a knock now,
"Oh, please just let me be".
He was a good man, but his mind was his own,
But ****** would he be, to ignore another mans right to a speech.

Religious or solicitor, neighbor, family or friend,
He just couldn't help it, a voice was a voice to appreciate in the end.

Carefully he opened, the great, white door,
And there stood a couple, with a smile so genuine, not fake for sure.
"Hello! We are preachers of God's great word,
Would you care to listen please, Sir?"


Minutes was passed and the man listened closely,
He wasn't much of a religious follower,
He didn't understand what those words or verses mean.
Still he listened, to much of his own surprise,
He felt a sense of happiness, and no, he didn't have to lie.

He lived in great misery, alone, angry and afraid of the world,
He had grown irritable and distrusting,
His mind a constant bustling.

But to have a company, despite what he had been told,
Such religous faces, were not evil or cold.
They made him feel comforted, and to his surprise a sense of hope,
For a moment he felt his hands hold on tighter, to the end of his own rope.

When finally they finished they spoke softly,
"Sir would you be intersted, in perhaps a bible study?"
For a moment he considered it, but suddnely his thoughts came back,
They came upon him so quickly, like a startled heart-attack.

"You will have to excuse me, I must be going now..."
With that he closed the door, without another sound.
The couple confused, only turned silently and left,
While the man had slumped down against the door, a sad, tragic mess.

For you see he had felt hope, happiness, and a sense of great peace,
Whether that was from two people alone or spirtuality.
But somewhere inside him, the voices screamed out loud:
"You don't deserve God or anyone..."
He was hurt and blinded in a dark black cloud.

He sat and sobbed, for he felt it was unsafe to take anything or care,
"Who am I to anything in this world?
I don't deserve anything, not even God should want me here.
I am not worth that salvation, or a knock from anyone,
Not even Christ himself should love me or my "blood".
I have no family, friends or job of any kind,
Please, just let me be preached by the only church that is my mind."
Based on a True Story~

As someone who grew up in a religious family, I soon went my own ways when I got older, I lost and to admit, abandoned my faith and found it quiet dark on my own.

I have had a lot happen, and with mental illnesses that scream at you constantly about how unworthy you are of anything, even good hearted preachers, or loved ones seem like a threat.
Many times I have closed my own doors on people, acting as if I had it all together and I didn't need anything, more so God...
Only to find myself behind that door later, praying for a sign, a voice, something at all.

Depression has killed me and made me a very isolated and cold person at times...
And like this character in the poem, he is stuck to the only thing he knows, his mind, his "church of thoughts."

I don't know where I was going with this at first, and I am not exactly sure it even came out correctly...
But it found me now, in the middle of the night, wanting to be manifested.
Interpet it as you wish. :)
And no, this is nothing against religious ones or anything negative,
In my opinion and eyes, I hold a very deep respect and appreciation for those still in touch with a belief so strongly they want to share.
And many times, these people were the only ones who have helped me when I didn't even have to ask. :)

...
I love you all,
Religious or not. ❤

:)
Delta Swingline Sep 2017
I'm not going to beat down on any religion.
That's a battle I don't need to be a part of.
Let alone, get on the wrong side of.

But here's the thing.

Something is very wrong with me.

What? I don't know.

It's not something under diagnosis or investigation, but it can **** as far as I can tell.

Long story short, I don't want to hear the good news.

We make it so easy to complain about nothing, and yet we stick to the things we hate.

Don't want homework?
Don't go to school.

Some people will take that advice, and most people will rebel against it and stick to school, because something will benefit surely...

Don't want to put up with the parents?
Leave home.

Don't want to feel pain?
Don't start feeling love.

Don't want someone to forget about you?
Become the worst possible version of yourself.

People can't seem to forget everything bad about the world.

Don't want to deal with the guilt of being a terrible person?
Then don't acknowledge anyone.

Don't want the pressure of being surrounded by people who hate you?
Then don't go anywhere.

You see none of these suggestions seem appealing at first.
But when you face this everyday, every answer comes out bland, and boring, cynical.

Like emotion you say them with.

Don't try.
Don't care.
Don't live.

It's too easy to give up!

But I do it anyway.

I can't handle hearing good news.

Or rather, hearing good things about myself.

Do not tell me I am better than this, I know I'm not.
Don't tell me I'm special, or that I'm redeemable, or worthy of anything above this.

Because I know...

I know deep down in this body there is a monster who's been uncaged before.

It's dying to get out...

And I'm dying to live.
It's easy to give up, what can I say?
Ron Gavalik Aug 2017
Sitting in traditional wooden pews
back in the mid-2000s,
a guest priest from the heart of the Congo
delivered a homily in broken English
about how his country had been torn to shreds
by warlords who control that region's
vast and valuable mineral deposits.

As the priest spoke in gentle passion,
a sea of sympathetic white faces listened
to him describe the rapes and murders,
the poverty and oppression.
One middle-aged woman in a yellow dress near the front
quietly sobbed at the reminder of true suffering,
a torture greater than mere death.

Out of a sense of courtesy
or possible humble generosity,
the priest did not disclose the minerals
that had brought on such gluttonous violence
were the very elements that make our electronics
flash and glow as perpetual escapes.

Instead, the priest requested
we pray with him
for future mystical solutions
to immediate physical problems.

As we filed out of the church
the older woman who'd wept
discussed driving to the local mall.
Apparently, there'd been a sale on mobile phones.
The crisp spring breeze had dried our tears,
and the power of the almighty dollar
wiped away our curiosity
and our short-term memories.
A memory I had today.
Luna Lima Aug 2017
I don't go to church
My soul need no search
You tell me I'll go to hell
Well, I think that's swell
I don't want an eternity of harps.
Wrote this after some idiot tried converting me to their cult.
Ana Aug 2017
Come hear the bells ring three times in a row
Around the corner, there are streaks of gold
Flash those eyes, the only temple I know
You are the church that's a blessing so bold

Holy is your touch that melts all the pain
I pray to the heavens to sing your name
Angels are the choir to cry like the rain
Your lips or your nape, I worship the same

Bow to the altar wherein you are saved
Like the ark Noah made to save all lives
To your mighty temple, these vows I made
I shall cover your neck with all these knives

I praise and worship the church you are in
You're the church in which I want to begin
FRITZ Aug 2017
we walked into town with our heads encased in cotton

     my tongue was leaden and molten it poured out of my mouth

          like a fountain I was powerless to stop it. everyone was excited they

               bounced around the place

          like loose atoms and ball lightning. outside a three-legged dog bit at

     frogs jumping around in the grass.

               it's soon going to be time for mass and I will be nowhere

to be found. i always laugh during church and make mama frustrated. she's

     exasperated and I don't see what the ******* deal is. church is a

quiet place, a cool sanctuary to smoke a joint and relax and not

          have to worry about anyone listening. it's so silly

to pretend otherwise. at night

i have my own mass with a confectioners Jesus and some wax for my

                     cross.
It's Sunday.
lavender Jul 2017
I never believed much in a god,
after my dad's death especially.
But then I found her,
and it was like I saw God in her face.
She took me to church,
on Wednesdays, sometimes Sundays.
And we held hands through the service,
so tight, I thought, the angels would have to tear us apart.
I loved her so much,
and I started to believe again.
Then her pastor started to shout,
words of negativity about our kind of love.
My heart fell,
for I could not believe a loving god would hate us just for that.
I slowly drifted further from believing,
and found something new.
But I still went to church,
and sat through the fire and brimstone services.
Then one Sunday, as I got up to leave,
she chased me into the bathroom.
And what happened there,
led me to never again go to church, as a believer.
I need no prompt to zone out and dissociate or become unattached.

At nighttime, creaks of wood tinker like tall tales. There is less I can see. I am too reliant on my eyes to tell the whole story. Sound is a sightless animal. The house I live in was probably built in the 1960s and I've noted it doesn't croon with the wind like other places.

Does speech require a mind? The human voice cannot be as massive an instrument as we make it. As wholly self-serving creatures, do we hear ourselves between cracks in this patchwork planet?

Is midnight just a silly word for numbers, like any other?

An empty house reclaimed by nature and subject to her laws has no want of questions and answers. Shapes are not made whole by human voice. If I could speak to my great-grandmother now, as I did six days before her death, would she tell me what she always told me? Would she wish I'd go back to church?

Raindrops paint my window a blurry gray. There is not a straight line to see through. Each ripple, and in it a reflection. I can piece it back together; I can see my small self seeing through it, and contains therein some middleplace that continues to escape me.

A full moon is hidden. Missouri is covered by clouds, like a wet blanket. The house will creak under water's weight , and when the clouds disperse and nighttime sings brighter it will creak still. This house is not a thing of nature.

It should not be here.
Marrisa Jun 2017
WNZ
You are a Child of God and He is gonna make you a Fisher of Men.
You will be strong in Him and courageous through Him.
My strength is in the Lord. My heart is in my Soul.
I was made to be remembered but also forgotten.
My time will come and away I will go.
My show will be over with, but my love will ever flow.
My strength is in the Lord.
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