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Eslam Dabank Jul 12
Cultivators of silent corpses seed plague, in the ignorant,
Across webs of lust and greed where they will bleed, and pray.
In the motley virile fictions they intoxicate the disempowered,
Dominating with illusions and indoctrinated stories where they prey.
What feared is the interpretation of the vice, not the tyrant,
That is when, history becomes a weapon to, a future, portray.

In writhing thickets of hair the salt of the vengeance is ambient,
Each who was indulged within false Utopia will then repay.
On wounds, salt, time will pour, for the witling faded poor.
That is when, we rinse our papers and end this spurious play.

Scripts to them are art to perceive to what benefits and sells.
Nations are blocked with blind belief of man but not the superior,
While rulers control their puppets, and puppets drug with pills.
Doubting and standing against is remote, it is the ulterior.
With words and malice they steer heads, and penetrate the cells,
Building their heaven upon our hell, where we stay the inferior.
Imprisoning the gospel truthfulness in themselves, the rotten cells.

The times of miracles are over, and prophecies are fulfilled,
but freeing ourselves from mendacity would be our grand miracle.
Salvation is waking up from a fancy dream, and a truth spilled.
In this poem I try to describe those whom use religion in politics for their own benefits.
AM Jun 7
Put on a suit and a pair of heels,
Maybe they won't see the imposter hiding underneath.
Juno Apr 17
These poems I write, they’re my escape,
though from what I do not know.
My troubles seem to evaporate
the moment I let them show.

I write about love, which is ironic
because I’ve never had a lover.
I used to think maybe I was sick;
for I’ve never longed for one either.

I write about death when I’m feeling down
so I can cry to something new,
but thinking to when I lost real tears,
maybe they weren’t mine to lose.

Even now as I write this down
- my headphones on but paused -
I wonder where my motives are bound,
for I always feel like a fraud.
Things are bound to go
I'm not who I was years ago
Your mind a mystery
Your thoughts
Brume to me
Man appreciative
Thoughts contemplative
Finish line ahead be gone
As my love turn zero to one
Dreams are certain truth
A heart's desire convolute
A soured down feeling of sundered youth

Your mind a mystery
Your thoughts
Brume to me
max Nov 2020
what if i am faking it?

i'm a fraud
i dont know what to do,
or who i am

i'm nervous
i'm angry
i'm anxious
i'm scared

it's all fake

i don't feel any more

what if she's right?
i don't have anxiety

it's all fake

what if i'm faking it?
mark soltero Nov 2020
i  am not a man
***** made at best with a lack of quality control
i cry shamefully
waiting for the day
to find that my heart has officially grown cold
like all the good boys
that receive their praise
what id give not to ask
but to only receive
just for one moment
i want to feel
what it feels like to be treated like necessity
and not a burden
i long for everything that will never be mine
Norman Crane Aug 2020
Every poet is a fake
eyewitness, peddler of make-believe hearsay,
A conveyor of love he never knew
in a city he never saw in a way to make you
feel the passion as if it were true,
He is an air-brusher of reality,
Thus a proselytizer of the Absurd:
That you can paint pictures with words;
That you can travel by verbs;
That you can conjure nouns by saying them;
That you can lead several lives within your only one.

Every poet is a fake
taxidermist, seller of second-hand stuffings
of souls that were never alive

Every poet is a fake
imperialist, would be explorer-***-colonizer
of the terra incognita of your mind

Every poet is a fake
Graff1980 Jul 2020
Church services will resume shortly,
so, get ready to crowd the rectory.
Confessions are in session
cause these are concessions to con men
plying their moral dissent
to compliment other idiots.

Success, cause intellectual blindness
and devotion to a deity who
doesn’t give two *****
about all of you who
are not rich republican men.

We win, my gullible friends.
Come on in.
Kenneth Copeland
and Cresflow dollar
will be taking your money
to support their private jet
go out and get
more stuff while the poor
struggle in debt.

Why care for those who despair?
Why share what we have
instead of bailing out
big businessmen?
We got to open the country again
and we can start with religion
cause they already believe
that science is fake
and magic is reality.

So, lets get them out and about
who cares if grandma get the disease.

We need to please these rich dudes,
these fox news
red hat attitude
gotta get a clue
red state race bating
confederate flag wearing
NRA make America great…


Yeah, go to church
your pearly gates await
just please stay in
for at least two weeks
when you get back from
hearing your preacher speak.
Lyn-Purcell Jul 2020

I seem to be deaf to the moon.
So pure yet cold,
it's soft light whispering deep
into my soul, lulling me to a peaceful
rest and yet, I turn away
Various seconds, minutes, hours, days,
months, years blow by like the wind;
fleeting and colourless
Am I not just a speck of dust,
a dancing vapour,
a grain of sand that will
crumble and be forgotten?
How I yearn to be more,
transcend through this mortal coil
to be free of any burdens
to not let my emotions gnaw and drink
from the pools of my sense
my securities
my dreams
and turn a woodland meadows
of light, life and birdsongs
into a blackened forest with raining
ash, brimstone sky
My quill and ink are there
but my hand turns to
that of golden stone, beautiful
but stiff
Still lost I am...
Where is the girl I thought I was?
I fear that all I've cloaked
I will one day become...
I know it's all obscure
But I plan to overcome

Imposter syndrome, a demon that is so hard to **** at times.
yousuf Jun 2020
with this pen i scribble-
artistic dishonesty.
i am not a poet-
nor am i blessed in prose.
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