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Matthew 1d

she goes
   b    y   her
jagged mistakes
cutting open the skin
and watching the blood
down her
blue skirt
the ground is getting
She looking toward her painful
wide open eyes
hands together
praying for the water to run gold
someone else to grab her away
are gone
never existed

Grace under pressure
esriddersi Feb 1
“A child’s a child.”
Why should that sound wild?
When whispered or breathed, however so mild,
outrage and scandal will fester and pile:
“How dare you defile our sanguine bled rights?”
“How should you limp men uprouse our plight?”
Should that be right; our beliefs so deviled,
then how should we men know
which Truths are in style?
All life has a first,
An enumerated past.
All life meets its end; the immutable Last.
But as life should start,
Unwoken; uncompiled
Why sully its splendor,
Why act so impious?
No matter the label:
A child. A fetus.  
To stop what did start is “choice” by eugenics.
A Cide for the mysteries that never will be
Like dismembered roses
with unblossomed smiles
The unheeded Unchilded.
The countless Unrosed.
just an opinion, rather comments on the poetic components than an insoluble social issue. :3
Austin Draper Jan 20
Do we pray if in the universe alone?
Are our hearts void prone?
Fill them with what our hearts make known.
For she knows, beautiful on the throne.
To her the universe and its nature was shown.
Her mind is her universe, her perceptive zone.
And everything around it, proof set in stone.
But be it so, from conscience desire we take a loan.
For many on points may agree, in our own little worlds we are lone.
For what does a God make but things to atone?
Only but victims to sanctification, deified backbone?
But she sees it, beyond our eyes and senses a capstone.
Our evils we disown
Our deeds we enthrone.
I cease to understand, this love gemstone.

I do what I think, and from it know what I feel.
For reality and it’s perceptions I know not the deal.
I know what it isn’t but not to it’s spiel.
For reality in a basket was packaged and sealed,
I know not the inscriptions, but I know their look and it’s seel.
For I take pride in my work, and to thank need I kneel?
Must I sacrifice the heart and the veal?

But it is in her heart, Jesus her hero.
Pointing out her path, in a linear arrow.
Predisposed and into it’s comfort borrow.
Change is menacing, of a ruthless bureau.
But look at the stars more clearly.
Must a human like being, put us here his villains to him and his son the Heroes?
But I feel scrutiny drawing nearer.
As my era of silence draws to a close, I must either rebel or cry “ditto.”
Worship is communalism, it is understood through a collective limbo.
They know some things are wrong but not why, and others mirror.
You cannot have it both ways, at night and in morrow.
Yet there she is, sleeping through sermons but claiming them thorough.
Perhaps she is afraid of a Godless sorrow.
Of those who drift too far, from morality they widow.

But morality is not in every deity.
Morality is Mortal and Ambiguity is Immortal.
Commands change, principles are idle, ideals and idol.
But inward, subjective observation reaches divinity.
I must let her know this, my Goddess.
She reminds me of humility, to love, my lord.
Her reminders of myself are divine.
And her arms are better than heaven.
What is of Satan but condemned from the moment of creation?
Love is the thing that reigns Almighty.
To others my wise sounding works I hope to bless.
And her and I, lovely we are not saints.
But Saints are of God, Ethnocentric to Abrahamic virtues.
Cut your *****, supply ****** no mercy.
**** your sons for your liege.
God is violent, Jesus is peaceful.
How must they agree? Let alone be the same person?

Love across the veil
Doubt only in these moments
“We pray to thee God.”
A kind of hot take on some things my Ex believed in, if you are not a fan of Religious commentary do not read.
Jordan LC Murphy Sep 2018
Let's be positive and not talk about death.
when I was a young girl I was raised to believe that a man in the clouds always watched over me
watched over me with all knowing sight as long as I prayed to him every night
as long as I blindly worshiped this being I would be happy and healthy and free
but what is freedom when you are alone in a faith that prohibits the dark unknown?

"I am a jealous God," he said, for I was taught to be meek
having faith in what I see is blasphemy
for a fruitful life on earth, my soul I would sell, if that did not sentence me to eternity in ****
spitting, burning demons aflame
forever tortured in this everlasting game
beaten and bruised and ****** below to a place that no one would choose to go
but He loves me

"you must look well, clean up, wear your dress!"
in order to avoid loneliness
you must follow these ten rules
he ignores the world's strife despite his tools
but He loves me

why do we not thank our doctors and mothers?
we thank God instead of the works of others
what has he done? he sits there and stares
he sits and laughs at what is not fair
but He loves me

he needs time
he needs money
he needs blind faith
he needs me to sacrifice my soul
he needs me to sacrifice who I am

...but He loves me
if this poem is offensive to you, don't worry, it offends me, too.
Eve Estelle Mar 2018
Glean the knowledge from the scene;
A tale written, read before,
Something's wrong, but something more --
Fear the nightmare, fear the dream,
Nothing stops at this machine;

Grasping rule yet leading blind,
Law will bind no bleeding mind
Intent on death, and peddled lines
Stray from course to fell the fruits,
As Red *** seeps through poisoned roots.

Mockingbird, mockingbird,
Tell me all the things you've heard...
They don't like it, so I like it,
I am like the mockingbird.
*Last stanza is meant to be italicized

This is sort of one of those feels-like-a-first-draft pieces, but I'm going to leave it alone for a while. If there are any parts that stand out to you as needing improvement, please don't hesitate to mention them!! Thank you!

[This poem covers some controversial aspects of the recent gun debates in the US, and expresses my personal views. You might not agree with me here, and that's perfectly fine. In fact, I encourage you to voice your own thoughts and opinions below, assuming we can all remain civil.

All sides have valid points to make on this issue. That's why it's such a difficult problem to solve. But discussion is good... Discussion is necessary. Constructive debate is the fuel for forward progress.]
jdotingham Sep 2017
I saw sentiments destroyed by coffee cups /....& cigarettes buds, smoking and drinking humans with homosexual dollars /........& politically correct (preaching "we hate haters") glugs.
/....The irony of a peaceful aggressive takeover, indulging in anonymous opinions, within the settlements of cloudlike-toilet-cubicles - in a vandal's wet!dream.
/.^Crouching in the corner shining red-pill-truth in a blaze of pop- cultured filth. /.....The one way to **** a hipster is to drown it in the mainstream... unless they retaliate with positivi-tea (I mean cynical- coff/ee). **** me, taken literally, this is the Saint Vulture! of **** Culture
of a feed,
scroll till you bleed,
cry till you plead,
cut till you flee,
dopamine doses are what you need,
documenting minuche weight loss on your placebo screen,
pananza you fiend.
zero Aug 2017
At night when the wind howls and the creeps begin to crawl
I have to stop, sit and think through it all.
how the days aren't long
how the nights are longer,
the thoughts that invade eventually get louder.
the images that grow will eventually get stronger.
and the fight you have to fight will be inevitably get harder.
I have to think about my being
about my future and my soul,
the god that is up there has no control
over its creations, its worthless bags of bones
that derive pleasure from breaking each other with all that we know,
and forcing them to believe the monstrosities that they believe because of their skin tone.
and when this captain goes down with its ship,
their god will fall from it's throne and into us
setting us into calm and sleep.

Without this creator we have no need for quarrels
for without its teachings we would have no morals
on gender, sexuality or the complexion of our pigments

without its guidance we would have grown stronger,
realising we are all fighters in the best way possible;
we would understand that the thoughts that invade
are merely society driven actions that they need to evade
or the images that shock and appal you are those of love and happiness,
the fight we have to fight turns out to be the war between loving ourselves and loving others.

We will realise that in the future its will be brighter,
in the morning your thoughts will be lighter
the fights we will have to fight will be weaker

We need to learn to stop those nights when our pain outways our pride and  imagine a life that isn't so wide.
How bland and dismal it would be,
filled with lifeless clones each as boring as the next, like that was the key.
We need to see that we are better than that.
We need to see that we are        f r e e
So stop preaching a dying cause,
stop paraphrasing books written 35,000 years ago
and repeat after me;
Because if we do have a creator, it's doing a ****** job of our nation's children.
We deserve better than the life it has given us.
for the people of earth, I salute.
jdotingham Aug 2017
I once heard the term tower block: described as great blundering gateways to the skys. People crammed in rooms filled with smoke from dope and great drama from these square living quarters. Each the same as the last, numbers and letters ascending upwards like the building itself. Living, breathing concrete. A murmur of excitement from its occupants, groaning about their rat race over a beer. Or two. Or three. The numbers don't matter. The letters of their names don't. To everyone else, they are this homonymous crowd of no-be-s. A reality show no one watches. Gaunt faces. Shaved heads. ****. Ripped and muddy trackies. Stunted heights. Loud voices. Everything to say, yet nothing at all. Nowhere to fall except when they implode and throw themselves off the tower block. The tags of colour at the tattoos found on the people themselves. Tagged with names. A source of identity in these rooms of complex similarities. Right now the streets are empty. I look up and imagine the stories of their lives. The ones never told. The ones ignored by the higher class, the sophisticated writers, the people who'd look the other way. They exist. In numbers and letters. Ages and names and places. This defines them. I should maybe write this down. Maybe not. Maybe I should set the bottom on fire like a *** and watch it become a towering inferno, maybe then people would take notice of these stories. As the fire climbs and traps people who have nowhere to fall apart from by jumping off the side. Then again, identification would be a mess. Everyone is the same in this building. With different stories, so they tell me. Tower block, just a concrete furnace of numbers and letters and numbers and letters and stories told before and that will come2b. It's not the only one, but only when we burn do |people take notice|
note: character perspective of Lucien Abbot.
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