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I woke up
White heart
White soul
White thought

Let no one contaminate
Thank you
Genre: Abstract
Theme: Dope
ari Sep 6
my love,
    my light
look at you
           those eyes of purity
                                 and trust
         that wrap around my mind like a blanket
oh, to feel your hands
              interlocked with mine
my dearest, my dearest, my dearest

my love
i love you
A silver lake.
Slake and slough and
you think
that this will surely
make you clean.
But you thought the same thing
about the tall fields of grass
that sliced your skin
in microscopic ribbons,
and made your shins itch.
What now?
Now that you have frost
coating every hair
of every crevice?
Is this purity?
Is this what you’re craving
Crown me with chaplets of rose and lily
Have the chapel bells declare me a saint
Purity is shown in the olive of my skin
God and his angels can no longer wait
For my arrival into their kingdom.

The harmonies of heaven ring through my heart
As they kindle their fires and sharpen their swords
Their spit and rough hands don't take me down
As I am a temple as indestructible as the lord
"Forgive them for they know not what they do".

Like it took Jesus three days to rise again,
It took them three days to spill my blood
Here I lay, draped in a silk veil and wearing a gold dress
My soul risen as high as the moon, the stars, and the sun
As what the lord promised me.

I may not appear to the eye, but if you listen closely,
You can hear my holy heart's ancient melody

In your prayers.
This poem is dedicated to my patron saint, Saint Cecilia. A little background information about her:

She is the patroness of music and one of the seven women commemorated by name in the Roman Catholic Church. She was born in 200 AD and died in 230 AD in Rome. She is known for her chastity, preaching, and hearing the music of Heaven in her heart. She converted over four hundred people to Christianity. She was persecuted by the Roman Empire for being a Christian. She was subjected to many tortures. She was forced to suffocate in a bathhouse. However, she miraculously lived. An executioner took matters into his own hands and struck her three times [ decapitating her ]. Yet, she still lived for three days. She was buried by Pope Urban and his deacons. Many centuries later, officials found her coffin, and saw that her body was incurrupt. She wore a silk veil and a gold embroidered dress, like in my poem. Her coffin also smelled like flowers. Her feast day is on November 22.

You can look her up online and find many interesting facts about her. She is definitely one of my favorite saints. So much so that I chose her name to be my "confirmation" name.

Sorry that this poem is very religious, ha ha. I just felt inspired.
MoDavid Jul 8
I’ve come to think about it; at times it may seem blatant—
why it’s a fact, but indeed we were all children once...
Children: then the innocent; but with time flew the pleasant
gems of the past. I could no longer recall when ‘twas.

Yet somehow the distinction presents itself quite clearly.
All are born without prejudices; they grow to learn
them their own. If anything, sentiments are born merely
from those around us, ‘til one day they can’t be unearned.

Thus I say, when men are born they are without character:
a racist man is not born but is made; likewise, a gentleman
is forged from the furnaces of virtue and integrity. Might there
be some way we can just try—to be children again?

We were all children once… it seems we forget this;
whence comes our innocence, is but a bygone fantasy.
Written 07/07/2020
Marion Jul 7
i fall to my knees at his feet with a heavy breath.
i almost feel unworthy.
this person, this man-
he's perfection in flesh and blood.
i feel blessed.
this angel, a saint with flaws, perfect flaws.
i nearly worship him.
godlike, i search his face for signs of light, anything celestial or close to it.
i find them faintly, small, unnoticeable to anyone who's wronged him.
he is perfect, and somehow, he is mine.
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