nish 1d
how many times did you tell me you love me
/did you really/
there was always a doubt lingering in me
you left it there, no reassurance
/does love exist/
you made me believe our love was religion
you were the god i would worship
now i’m better off an atheist.
© M.H

another revamped 2o16 bad boi
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
Not at all terror has no religion
today like yesterday London is ON!
For good for the good reason!!
Like in the West, in the East
It’s the same for all the people.

Send to the prison
the terrorist has no religion.
There are terrorists
on the front and more
so behind the scene
forget not both
are equally terrorists!
Artistic Standards
Have nothing to do with moral standards.
One can have high moral standards,
But make lousy art,
But  one can abandon all moral standards,
And  make exceptional art
With rigor
And precision.
Ears burn from the heat
Of 9.30 low sun
And the shrill, bludgeoning beat
Of a preacher on ear drums.

Resonance reverberates
Down the length and breadth of plastic
Bus stop G.

            Preaching too close to the speaker, endless loops of feedback beam through blue sky to God and higher;
            The rays of his deity send a beading of hot sweat down his forehead onto hot metal microphone mesh, causing further interference;
            Believers and atheists alike join in the holding of ears like some mutual prayer for the end of this aural torment;
             And from across the road, the limestone temple of Jehovah's New Cross kingdom stares him down and blushes to redbrick with embarrassment.
New Cross Road, London, July 2018

As part of 'View from...', a collection of observational poetic experiments, whereby I allow myself five minutes to finish a poem regarding my surroundings at that time.
I memorized the way you spoke my name.
the way your lips curved around the vowels,
like the soft kisses you used to brush on the tops of my cheeks;
even the harsh consonants
rounded out to soft sounds.
soft lips, soft hands, soft sighs.
you said my name like a prayer, reverent,
as if holding a communion with God
and only He knew the right dips and sighs in pronunciation
yet He decided to share them with you.
there was teasing and jokes and nicknames,
but alone you whispered my name.
it had power. it had grace. it had meaning.
you were the only one who truly knew it.
sometimes i wonder, if when what we had died
my name died on your lips.
I wonder if I think of us in religious images
because I blame your God
(my God, our God, whose God)
for keeping us apart before we could begin.
I couldn’t find places of worship in your skin,
I couldn’t find them in the hard chapel pews.
They might be in the book you love,
That I struggle to make sense of
Because the words on the pages don’t match
The words in the sermon.
Between peace and impasse,
I’d pick the former if only it meant
Understanding where things went wrong.
Maybe loving you was sacrilegious.
Maybe the assurance that I was “good enough” That I was “worthy of love and loving”
Shouldn’t have made you bathe in holy water
And reread passages of your book
Looking for the answer to your prayers.
I couldn’t save you from self imposed damnation.
Your parents, your church, your faith.
I was never your salvation nor you mine.
But maybe I’ll pray for us,
Who we could have been and who we were
And hope that God still hears my prayers.
L 4d
God looks down at me.(on me)
What do you see?

Rosary of me;
you plant the seed, and watch it grow.
Your giant flower.
The death of you.
Withered in the palm of my hand.

The cross is mine. Rosary of me;
My tongue presses against a woman
and I hear a thousand things-
"Child, look how small, how small you've become."
I taste her heart
and she sings my name.

Jesus has died. This cross is mine.
God looks down at me.
I look up at him.

Rosary of me;
Rosary of I;
I pray, I listen.
I worship, I shine.
I am my own, my religion is Me.
The Seraph opens his wings, and defies the Lord.
Rosary of me, Rosary of I,
may my wings be spread
throughout the rest of time.
Somewhere, a computer buzzes
Mechanical ignorances in spite
Of matriarchal indulgences,
Pretty glasses preceding ugly
Attacks upon the commercial
Disaster, a master of stirring
Deep loathing for all the many
Morning misers, dawning dreads.
Coffee in cavalry, busy bayonets
Surrender to social sabres, and
Afternoon is upon them again.

Sometimes, sound sin married
Found fortitude, a strength no
Sunday sermon could abide
Within the symphonies of the
Damned, saved holy grace sighs
Sweetly at such a thought, but
Untouched dust gathers touched
Tomes quicker than the cries of
Hellish kindles to fresh sinners,
And Dante once again dies to destitute days of afternoon aids.

Somehow, even the harmonies of
Heresy, all ablaze and all drowning,
Put away the playings of patriarchal
Palaces in retrograde rendering to
Something louder than the mean
Mechanics threatening the worker,
a faith demanding force that
Brings Olympus to Athens, Athens
To ash, for there is nothing more
Demanding than the turning
Trebuchet of afternoon antics.
Perhaps I shall make changes to this when I am not so tired, but enjoy this late night writing.
I feel there’s only a God so you won’t end up in hell
But I feel like hell comes before heaven
Hell is the current
You are you’re own God they only tell you otherwise so you believe in something
Because God know you don’t believe in yourself
It’s like instead of looking up or down for answers look around
Not in a book or a bible but look within
Without closed eyes
Without praying hands
Without it ending in amen
Bruh answers found within
Do you ask yourself , like me ?
When will your obssesions leave you be ?

Will time ever stop so you can truly be free ?

Once again i am all by myself , facing the sea

the city is empty

I am leaking thoughts
Trying to make sense of the man i have become

I try to focus but i keep drifting away

The city is empty

There is a conflict inside of me full of sway
Lost in the thought of the voice i must obey
Far beyond myself, it is the only way to keep at bay

I let go as i fade away

In the background the echo of a queen made of clay: pray my son! You must pray!

Words Of Harfouchism
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