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Cadmus Elissa May 11
Oh, the sound of Your mercy
a calf’s skull cracking like wet fruit
between the lion’s blessed jaws.
Such elegance in hunger.
Such holy punctuation in the scream.

We praise Your benevolence
in the slow bleed of the gazelle,
its legs still dancing
long after the gut’s been opened.
A waltz of grace. A lesson in letting go.

Behold Your love, you the all loving,
as it comes ashore in Tsunamis,
dragging children from their beds
into the arms of the tide.
Baptism by bone and salt.

Oh Creator, architect of fang and flood,
Who crowned the strong and taught them to drink blood.
No wiser hand could craft such law divine
Where nature loves the slaughter, by design.

Your favor is a wildfire,
Your kiss, a plague.
Your will, a butcher’s hymn
we dare not question
lest You love us harder.

To you Lord,
forever we bow and say,
Amen.
This poem is a work of dark satire reflecting on the brutality embedded in the natural world. Its tone of reverent sarcasm is aimed at questioning the notion of a benevolent creator within a system governed by predation, suffering, and indifference.
They say love makes the world go ‘round…

But try proposing without a diamond that whispers loud…
Money…

Family dinners full of smiles and fights repressed…
Money…

Cousins showing up at Christmas looking freshly blessed…
Money…

The secret to youth? It’s not kale or prayer…
Money…

Just a surgeon, a syringe, and some derriere repair…
Money…

You want the Nobel? Sure, write your thesis with flair…
Money…

But someone still paid for that tenured chair…
Money…

The kids need books, a laptop, and a chance to dream…
Money…

Also Wi-Fi, tutoring, and a school with steam…
Money…

Evolution gave us fire, but civilization gave us class…
Money…

And the biggest difference between king and ***…
Money…

You want to change the world? Start a cause? Break a curse?
Money…

Or you’ll be that guy with vision… and an empty purse…
Money…

Science needs data, equipment, and trust…
Money…

Also snacks for the lab, and a fridge that won’t rust…
Money…

Want to flirt, be adored, radiate that spark?
Money…

Or stay home, scroll apps, and die in the dark…
Money…

Even funerals aren’t free, your last “to-do”…
Money…

Because dying is easy, but burial? Whew…
Money…

So next time someone tells you it isn’t everything…
Money……

So here’s your truth, wrapped neat and funny:
Everything you touch, trust, taste, or tolerate runs on…
Money…
If this poem made you uncomfortable, don’t worry, it’s probably just your bank account recognizing itself in the mirror. Side effects may include existential budgeting and spontaneous side hustles.
I'm almost positive I heard them talking

Talking in their protective, yet complaining manner

They say, they only get to interact with the weak

They say, they're all too often held responsible for the bond between others

What's the matter with them?

They're the ones full of chemistry

They're the ones who can escape scott free

While I have to stay inside and act positive about it

Just once I'd like to not be in the middle of everything
When it comes
to the verdict

— no noose
is good noose
Dylan A Apr 26
Did you even hear me?
   I heard every single me, humbled?
Me:
Doing cigarettes?

Bro:
Yeah bro, that makes you cool & drippy!
It’s like, the smoke shapes your aura.
Grey & mysterious. Girls love that.

Me:
Haha, are you serious?

Bro:
Bro wade through the river of non-smokers.
They’re dry. Dull.
Sipping smoothies in silence.
None of the women from this generation
like non-smokers, you know?
We are born to attract em !
Follow the trend !

Me:
Bro, but listen to me—
Bro but ..
I don't follow the trend
I make my own   and..

Bro:
Nah, you listen!
This is your age!
This age is never gonna return.
We're never gonna hang out like this again, dude.
Look around…
The chiya is hot, the sky is pink,
& your lungs? Empty—
what a waste.

Me:
Broooo…

Bro:
Smoking & tea is the only ecstasy!!
The puff is the prophet
the cigarette—our staff of rebellion!

Me:
Bro, but I wanna do drugs.

Bro: (pauses)
What?

Me:
Yeah, seriously. A whole lotta drugs.
Not just smoke—
I want the sun to melt.
I want me and my shadow to be 5th dimensional.
I wanna get crazy !
I want my soul to tap dance on Saturn.

Bro:
Dude… what?

Me:
I’m tired of these mild rebellions.
You’re out here glorifying smoke
like it’s a divine sacrament.
But I want the real f~ckin chaos.
Jim Morrison, Osborne Ozzy ,  
All these ****** Rock stars

I want to argue with gravity.
Argue with non-humans!
Gods

Bro: (stunned)
…You okay, bro?

Me:
I think I’m becoming art.
Bonnie Apr 4
Your grand memorial, all engraved,
Your history gilded, iniquity paved.
But each new eye who stops to read,
will know the less your wrongful deed.

"Erected here for future’s view,
By friends to make you shine anew."
The weight of grief, the tears once shed,
offset by a plaque that says you are dead.

Still, neath this stone, to make it clear,
Your marker says, “Yep, I was here.”
For all your fear of being erased,
In stone, your ego seems misplaced.
Trying out a little sarcasm. Monuments can often veil wrongdoing in gilded narratives
owls at dawn Feb 5
don't try to say too much
clarity breeds disappointment
hazem al jaber Oct 2024
Sarcasm ...

Imaginations constrain me...
As if it were reality...
And I can't understand it...
Despite it constant presence with me...
All the time...

hazem al ...
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