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Marco Apr 9
With the open gates of Babylon
the holy flood poured on and on
through frond-covered stone ways
on grieving Palm Sunday
and the ****** water endlessly rushed
as if turned to wine by Jesus's touch

we were his disciples but behaved like sinners
he walked on water as we took from the rich
the godless romans were quick to condemn us
thus Jesus was crucified for being a witch

they set our stakes ablaze in the night
the darkness enflamed by unholy light
covered our heads with white cotton hoods
and barefoot we stumbled through dusk-silenced woods
we could hear the flames crack like whips in the dark
as they reached for us who were blessed with death's mark.
lizzie Jul 2018
I was bare;
Showing you the battlefields left
Of wars fought on my skin.
A scared innocent body,
Riddled with sacrilege.
I revealed to you my scars both visible and invisible
And you mapped each of them with your fingertips.

Your eyes locked with mine.
Inside the beautiful windows to your mind,
I saw you
Churning
With curiosity;
With wonder;
And your gentle gaze held me steadily
With the absence of lust.
And I knew I made the right choice.
Austin Heath Sep 2016
The depravity
of instinct might repulse you;
inhuman impulse.

The gods they create,
yet it's godless how they pray.
Prey upon the weak;

Those conscious angels
ugly by purity and
lust of good virtue.

We rot like they do;
with our eyes being closed as
our pulse cracks the night.
Lauren R Apr 2016
Dear God,

I don't know if you know this but we're counting on you. I don't believe in you, none of your healing touch is true. There are no pearly gates, no wise men, no father, son, and no holy ghost. There's just *******'s trophy little girl swaddled swamp bottoms and dumb men, just a ******, a suicidal-wanderer-mothers-help-squanderer, and teething-on-baby's-flesh demon.

God, you haven't cured me, or my boyfriend, he's still bleeding on the occasion, and not over candle lit dinners either. God, can't you see we're seething? God are you even listening? God are your ears sewn shut? Did some shotgun blow them off? That reminds me, God, that's your job. Please take away the shotguns. I don't want them anywhere near anyone, especially certain someone's. I'm talking about cops and angry fathers and kids taking steps towards the edge. Our freeways are ***** enough God.

God, you've let me down. I'm screaming everything unholy your way God. You're pathetic. Where is the miracle I've been asking for? I'm not praying God, I'm on my knees and begging, like you told me to. Where's the saving? Where's the grace and goodness? All I'm seeing is terror God, all I'm seeing is your face, laughing and crying at the same time.

You're a disgrace.
Frustration with the universe and how it works against us sometimes
Beleif Jan 2016
My pen is drawn,
I play my card.
In opposition, bullets charge
At the humble hull that graces space.

I row through open,
Sound is broken,
Yet I feel the great explosions
As I begin my work of art.

His beard can change the name of Virgo,
As it entangles her with rugged work.
His fingers grasp the fins of Cetus,
Guiding him through hallowed dirt.

Upon my course of groundless ground,
A chorus spits its sinful praise
Upon the Heavens, hands are raised;
Filthy angels make the games.
Holy traitors, boundless bounds,
And sacrilege will fall as rain.

The ones who think they are marionettes,
Will taste the blood on their swords.
Controlled by delusion,
They swing from confusion,
There are no strings in an aimless space.

The pen masters dance in allusions!
Imprison the stories of old,
And execute them with ink!
A war to break out in a comedy show,
Over one wordless tome—
On an altar in my vision zone!

My pen unarmed,
My senses harmed.
A soundless token of echoing voices,
To be spoken in softness, over thundering roughness.
This altar carved with wood and stone,
This tome of words with sheets of ink,
These words wear masks— I cannot read.
Tear a page,
It falls like rain.
Observe the rage,
Let freedom faint.
Soak the page,
Its masks detatch.
Lift the rage,
I row away.
Part III and finale of "Pennons of Madness."
K Mae Jul 2012
Earth my church
I dig within and plant with fervor
kneeling  grasping skin wet smeared
immersed in wondrous mystery

Yet sacrilege there needs to be
crushing bugs with vehemence
between gloved thumb and finger.
Lenore Lux Jan 2015
Can you

hear me?

I never thought I’d be screaming, going back to you

And your displaced sacrilege

I believe that I can help, if you let my vision lead you on.

Sanity’s left through the window we left open

Nothing but misery breathing in,

as we drift, drifting over,

and over

everything but finding nothing shutting us in

to prevent our dissolution

Disease crept in and kept us from devotion

Never breaking but never living in

what you’d call close to real life

or real life

itself, I cannot tell across time’s definitions

so I come back to ask of you.

Can you

hear me?

I never thought I’d be screaming, going back to you

And your displaced sacrilege
Frank Ruland Nov 2014
"Slinging slander in sheer desperation"

You level our lives with lies
while looking us in our eyes,
in fear of finding your own demise.

"Daring to cast damnation with no deliberation"

So bold as to render us cold
with tales and fallacies you have told
in an attempt to sell sinful lies you want sold.

"We suffer immolation upon the stake"

We stand and burn in the flames
of a world where we're rendered depraved
by your whispers so grave.

"Berated by blasphemy from a soul so fake"**

We fall to our knees in the dirt
while the stones you cast hurt
us with the accusations you assert.

— The End —