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Jason Apr 26

Your Honor,







The persecution rests.

I think it's all too easy to let your old opinions help decide new judgments, especially when you've devoted a great deal of time to developing those opinions.
Remember to take some time to see the other side of the story.
It usually makes a big difference, for some reason.
Nolan Willett Nov 2020
Take it as a compliment
Branded heretical.
Bring on the pyre,
And set it afire;
When they resort to
Crucifixion
You’ll know you have the right
Conviction.
Maria Mitea Sep 2020
Eyes lost
in waiting,
Silently
looking in vain,
Despite it,
He kept them
widely opened,
Carefully,
Silently,
He put it away
on the old
wood table.

Carefully,
refolding
his courage
lifting up
ferrous arms
stripping
Carefully,
a tinny piece,
rolling himself
in still noise
a cigarette of
Powerful
low-graded
rustika,
a variety of
great purge
hunger
killing
good reason,
one pack a day
helped.

It helped survive
the cold,
and everyday
toil when
soldiers and ants
starved,
Makhorka,
insecticide
of freedom.

Silently,
looking in vain,
Despite it,
He kept them
widely opened,
Carefully,
Silently.
Moth Apr 2020
Spit from your mouth like an insult
like the very word doesn't bloom
and fill me with the pride of it
witch, pagan, devil
Spit hate and misinformation
like your ancestors before you
keep your cycle and see where it goes
Jason Adriel Feb 2020
tell me:
how are beliefs helping
when they cause persecution
screaming injustice while performing acts of hate?

tell me:
how does one differ
folly for a questionable book
or the innermost desire to rule others?

tell me:
how can one say
religions are the foundations of earth
when morality is at a point of contempt?

tell me:
how could one say
one believes in a god
when one ignores humanity?

where is the decency?
what is peace in a tyranny of hate?
some day we'll realize a little too late...
many face persecution in areas all over the world, not excluding my own country. This is a simple question for all the hatred...
Nikolai Dec 2019
Dull is the day.
A new thrill in the night.
A shrill scream in her flight.
Blood is dripping, the ax is lifting
Last of his kind,
a creature of night,
life in perpetual darkness,
neverending, the madness.

The spirits are raising,
pursuers are racing,
with a goal of ending his splendid ambition.

The endless ordeal has come to an end,
his final salvation eluded again.
The blood is no longer dripping,
his hands, no longer ripping the flesh.
Rapture is gone, once again he's alone.
He's come to oblivion, forgotten again,
ignored, but prison can bind him only so long.
Not too sure about the title. Not too sure if the story is in any way coherent or inferable from the text.
JΛM Dec 2019
Righteous anger is intoxicating;
Brain cells sold to the fiction of the mind.
It funds peddlers too loudly debating:
Oh, what to do with words spent on designs
Of machines combating contradictions?
Their motherboards are hardwired for the ****.
Any thoughts or beliefs on opinions?
Just wait for their hunger to get its fill.
Nothing like teeth flushed with red and venom.
***, death, and chocolate cannot compare
To the moral high ground's cheap decorum
Of beliefs held in contempt and despair.
      Because paying attention to the wit
      Of my getting hard done by is the ****.
Nigdaw Sep 2019
I'll bite and snarl at your wheels
rumbling past me up that hill
I know you'll never stop
leaving me stranded
a mad dog.
What some people will do for ambition.
S Smoothie Jun 2019
A ring of futility

The patience game is not for the faint heart

Watching them tear your confidence apart,

Pulling the flesh from your backbone

Creaks give way to breaking

Shattering of nerves

Plucking away the feathers of hope

Bare naked and goosepimpled

The carvery lays waiting

An unceremonious carving

Beligerant twisted barbs of lies

They think they have power

They think the can destroy me

I almost thought they could too,

But as they say reputation is king

And mine speaks flesh to my bones

I pick the scales off one by one

Their pious deception no match

for my holy inception

A twisted fork tongue lays deep in its own rotted flesh

How the snakehole swallows it's own creator

Writhing in contorted panic as it's own truth flashes in its eyes

I may well be torn down every shred of pride

Only to rise a new and free from their serpentry

While they taste the bitter poison in their own sad tales

They never had real faith

And mine was never afraid of being tested

They forgot the sage old saying

Death trampling on death

Arise Tabitha and sin is no more

And nor is the serpent whom devours its self.
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