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stopdoopy Nov 2018
There she goes

Girls file into line
Three by three
Knee length skirts

Down the aisle

Tell me yours and I'll tell you mine
Prayers morning, noon, and night
Careful now, They're prepared to smite

Up the Stairs

Now we dine
And then off to bed
One "lucky" girl gets to practice head

The tallest tower

She's had too much sacramental wine
Hands touched and caressed
And she felt far from blessed

Down she jumps

Touched by filthy swine
"what a horrible disaster"
Her eulogy given by that same pastor

The Devil moves on
Anya Aug 2018
If they talk they talk after one
But all the nails in his socket were gone
And though our pastor could not outrun
The secret remains of Babylon
cait Mar 2017
i don't believe in religion.
but if you believe that jesus
was resurrected.
that eve was created in
adam's image.
that moses parted the red sea.

that a woman cannot love a woman
without sinning.

then i will not bother you
with my love.

does that make me a sin?
or a temptation?

you say that religion is a blessing.
but for me

it's a ******* curse.
I apologize to those who find comfort in religion, but it has only played keep away with my heart.
Austin Bauer Mar 2016
Do you realize 
the impact you have
on those around you? 

The smile you gave
that waitress filling coffee
changed her perspective.

The young boy
that looks up to you
shapes his life after yours. 

The pastor who watched 
you grow up 
finds purpose.

The friend you met
at summer camp
smiles remembering. 

The song you wrote
alone in your room
is someone's anthem. 

That speech you gave
for extra credit
broke someone's addiction.

The time you prayed
for an impartation
empowered her to speak.

You don't realize
the effect you have
on everyone around you. 

Don't dare 
give up
on them.
ALamar Jul 2015
Using the church as a kickstarter is not the work of the Lord
Pastors pimping congregations like ******
Psychological manipulation
Using faith in reverse making people hurt for not buying into the BS
Love offerings have become "buy the pastor a new jet fund"
Since when is love defined by how much you donate
Since when is salvation based on how much money you take the pastor
jennifer Jun 2015
He came.
Wielding Neosporin. & hot chocolate, Housed in a thermos, safe
Temperature keeping of course.
Snacks too, always
Sweet.
Honeybuns maybe, or a cake, itself
Housed in plastic, the cellphane type.
Undoubtedly he had read
Somewhere that we
Love sweets, they help us
Thru the absence of what we really
Crave.
So here he came, in a
Glorious naivety, an
Ignorant hope.  He
Found me while I was distracted, busy
Inhaling summertime on a
Paper plate.
Bland burgers,  burnt hot dogs, Watered-down soda, and
Soggy chips, these the
Staples of a barbecue.
I don't know whether it's the
Charcoal or the
Vitamin D, but somehow that
Flimsy plate full of food is the best Thing you've
Ever had,
Delicious,  tasting of smiles and
Tan lines,
Green grass and flip-flops,
Fun and relaxation.
As I took it in, he
Approached,  sidekick in tow,
Of course, carrying a book,
That book, the one none of us
Wanted to see or touch, much less
Read.
I thought about running, knew I could.  But, my
Blissful escape on paper had been
Provided by the neighborhood
Church.  My
Mother had instilled enough
Manners in me to know that in
Exchange for this happy memory Inducing
Food, the
Least I could do was listen to his
Spiel.
I did listen, then I
Excused myself. He,
One more person
Met and forgotten in moments.
Except he came
Back
Again and again,
Praying and talking
With all of us,
Bringing with him snacks:
Honeybuns frosted with an icing that left the aftertaste of
Hope, hot chocolate  
Accessorized with
Faith marshmallows. Neosporin to Heal
Scars, result of
Needles and of memories.
He kept coming,
Wouldn't give up; probably he
Couldn't.
Kept trying ,
Trying to penetrate the
Fog, we've all aquire. Fog of
Protection,
Fabulous fog keeping everything at a
Distance, slightly
Blurry, too
Distorted to
Hurt.
To get thru that fog, to make it
Dissapate, would be nothing short of a
Miracle. One that he
Wouldn't be able to
Produce.
We'd all sit
Politely, listen to him,
Wishing we could
Hear him,
Knowing we
Couldn't.  Because he
Wasn't human to us.
Too perfect,  too saintly,  too
Godly.
Unreal.
The equivalent of the
Mall Santa:
Visible, touchable sure, but that didn't make him any more
Real.
Until that day,
That day we talked
Hair.  
1 self-deprecating joke & I learned he
Wanted better hair,  the
Patrick Dempsey kind,
Thick, flowing. His
Desire for that meant he was
Vain,
Insecure,
Human.
Human meant I
Heard, meant the
Fog was still there, but he was
In it,
With me,
Willing to wait for it lift.
He willing to wait, I willing to
Hear.
He came,
Wielding neosporin, hot chocolate,  
Honeybuns. And
Glorious naivety with a side of
Ignorant hope, the
Best kind of hope, really the
Only kind.
Naivety and hope. That
I inhaled, like
Summertime on a
Paper plate.
Marisa Lu Makil May 2015
Whenever my pastor preaches, he adds in memories to help us relate

I asked him once
How he always
Had a story
To tell

"Because God is everywhere"
How beautiful
A thought.

*God is everywhere.
Velzen Apr 2015
Through the dark valleys I speak
Wandering, the great perhaps I seek
To light this vast and lonely place,
To share the truth about His grace

*Serving my God in a very special ways
4/13/15
Scratchy seat, tight shoes, full bladder.
I am 7 years old, it is Sunday,

and I am afraid of my mother.

I look up from my coloring book, now salt water stained, to find the source.
She rocks
backforth
eyes shut tears slowly streaming,
splashing on my masterpiece-
Jesus nailed ****** to the cross, sporting hot pink lipstick,
****** blue eye shadow.
Her lips savagely spit out serpentine whispers,
sinister alien tongue I can't decipher.
Glacial dread seeps through my veins,
horripilation crawling up my back.

I do not know this woman.

Crayons, jump rope, stickers, and paper dolls ignite into flames as I glance around me.
Muttering hisses,
demonic breaths
echo wall to wall in this
"House Of God".
Brothers and sisters mutate to strangers,
bodies hosts to malignant beast before my wide, child eyes. Dry cracked palm upon foreheads of those beneath him, brother Tom's eyes curl back,
facecrimson
mouthwide
voicebellowing psychotic prattle I could not mimic for the life of me.
The diseased,
fearful,
weak sinners cower,

actually bow down before JesusTomChrist,

eyes gleaming hopeless, seeking forgiveness,
refuge,
salvation.
Dry cracked palm gestures towards collection plate.

— The End —