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Riley Jun 6
Decaying parts
Live zombies
Ungodly bodies made holy again
Are you still alive?

Though I know you to be ashes stashed in the broom closet,
how is it your skin still walks this Earth?
Unattached to me, but grasping onto a stranger.
If they wish to pull the heart from their chest, will you die again?

This imposter wears your skin as a sweater.
If he sins will you too, be a born again sinner?
I let myself succumb to desires
That aren't worthy to be nurtured
I fall for the same sin, the same fault
That I've a million times taught
Myself not to surrender to
But it keeps falling through
The cracks of my soul
Making me lose control
Of the goodness inside

My entire being.
Thoughts?
she once had stars on her eyes that could light up the way back home without the moon helping out

and she once had a fire on her heart that could warm up even the coldest night with just the touch of her fingertips
~
but the stars were ripped out
and the fire burned out
~
now all she has are a broken pair of wings and a tainted halo

and her forsaken form walks the streets of a land she doesnt know


but oh, dear,
she has never felt more alive than she does on earth
sinful; wicked.
The Foody One Apr 13
You were
my Sin
And my
Redemption -

All
at once.

Was it
a Miracle?

That, I still question.

- unholy pleasure -
© 13/04/20
Nat Lipstadt Apr 11
a woman comes to me at 2:20am,
from across the world, asking if I am that cool jew,
occupant/son of the unholy hours when death and crucifixion,
them two old friends, are waving temptation with both hands,
never mentioning heaven, offering .99 cents of sanitized compliments,
which for a fifth rate amateur writer is revolutionary,
as close as you will ever come to global recognition

that woman says, yes! you’re that insufferable fool whose
suffering keeps us awake when he should be sleeping in the
half-death state, in the unholy hours, only reporting back
what he has seen across the borderline, in these times
when a thousand-die-a-day daily from suffering
that is uniquely human, a wracking medieval torture,
granting those viral messengers, slow extra pleasure

be nice to yourself for a change, write ‘bout what they want,
broken love and suicide, mundane pain, keep it plain, short!
easy stuff that sells records, making you not whisper words
never meant to be shared, the language of the unholy hours,
a dialect unique, that Google can’t quite rightly translate,
for not every vision is substitutable, suitable, rated G for babies, so,
keep it short like a miserable life that needs a prophecy to complete

48 hours ago thought I was infected, a glide path to rocky moon-smooth,
a landing where words unique, taken away, sealing your mouth with
tubed oxygen that inhibits thinking, air that might **** all of you, not just pain, but what makes you unique, your own 10 commandments
of speech, the old testament, the source book of insight into whatever
makes your lungs breath in rhythmic to heart beating, and dying
discordant disrupts the gene sequencing of inhaling and exhaling


the editors and the critics overlooking, that sit on both shoulders,
are already complaining, no más, no más, no más!
suture that incision, close your mouth, the unholy hours
need a special silence, Ruth’s lips that move but go unheard,
make no mistake, we want to listen in, voyeurs of visions
but we need you broken, we need a break, from confronting
the repeatedly delayed, but undeniable, the clockwork orange
second coming of the ungodly hours

4:02am
Sabato
4/11/20twenty
new york city of lips
inspired and spired  completely and totally by a mid-of-night conversation with a Lady From Manila 😉
Robby Nov 2019
Trouble
Troubled
Troubling

Which one are you today?
I am that unholy trinity

Three in one… a triptych of suffering
Curse my name… mutter it under your breath

I will merely continue until my repentance is full
Andrej Barovic Aug 2019
Bright watchful eyes of the Unholy one
Cast thy sight upon me!
Bring forth the fires of Hell
Bring forth the armies of Doom!
I offer thee my sinful soul
But one condition must be!
Bestow upon me one last kiss
Of a woman to thee unknown!
Let me this once not suffer and moan
Let me have one memory to cherish
Before I into the Nether perish.


Liar! Traitor! Unholy spawn of Hell!
Thou betrayed my final will!
I call upon the angels above
Radiant and divine!
To cleanse me of this curse
So ravaging and malign!
Bless me with thy holy light
And allow me to repent!
Revive my mortal soul
That into Hell was sent!


If only but for one moment
That I could bear witness for a final time
Her hair in locks, red as fine wine
Let me witness and lament
Let me witness
Let me die
Forsake me into the fires of Hades
No pain shall I feel
No tear shall I shed
In this Plutonian realm of Death.
This is the first proper poem I have ever written, and is my starter in poetry. So far I had only written prose ie. Short stories and fiction and I would appreciate any and all type of feedback. Thank you.
Dominique Apr 2019
The middle of a pool of salt-
A Eucharist is said to float.
God's dignity created flesh,
A sacrifice the Pope could bless
If he could only find the shoes
To wade inside the choking blue
To pluck the body from the waves;
A child the doves were slow to raise.
No, there is no God.
If there was that baby wouldn't be choking in the salt, thanks.
Transcendence into the 7th circle
The emptiness a grave remembers when a funeral ends.
You looked into my eyes and promised me we would douse together.
Vanquish together.
You forgot about me
how deeply I cherished you.
How could you forget.
Im nothing left.
The crying of a violin in an empty vessel.
You deceived the entity out of me.
You writhed into my soul, quietly, but still, like the grim reaper lingering at my bed side.
The snake ingesting it’s own tail.
I can show you emptiness like you’ve never seen.
The hesitation to bear something.
Clever in hand, you painted my throat.
It spilled deeply, it spilled sweetly.
A cue to the abyss.
The return of the foul mouthed fool.
They whispered rot.
Their heads turned as they danced around my carcass.
They bathed in my blood, they felt rejoice.
I’ve been worn as a pelt.
I’ve been made a sap to the sickly.
The raven of death gorged my eyes.
The marbles that reflected my pain.
I was blind.
A blind sore stumbling over disparity.
I ruminated into sorrow.
I ripened death.
I married it in a vail of red.
Vows made in blood.
Rebirth.
This is what love feels like when the only person you cared about suddenly feels nothing.
Badshah Khan Feb 2019
Rubayiat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) – 52

BismillahIr RahmanIr Raheem

On your chosen road towards your noble destiny,
Your chosen road may look like a majestic peak,
You may not discover the familiar path from the below,
But there is consistently a possible path above the majestic peak,
You naturally need to climb and see properly by yourself!

On your chosen path you will typically encounter with those,
Who are positively a unholy and a dear saint, each and everyone will;
Naturally direct you diverging the path in many possible directions,
Towards your noble destiny, if you are mystified or undoubtedly lost
Then rest and hold your breath and listen politely to your noble heart!

Listen carefully towards your almighty creator who heartens your dear soul,
He, the specific one who certainly cause you walk, naturally make you climb;
And undoubtedly discover the unknown path above the majestic peaks,
Who divinely revealed the moral truth about the dear saint and wicked to you.

Carefully hold your faith firm and walk towards your noble destiny.
Remember keenly, every noble destiny promptly provide a direct path.
And every chosen path gratefully acknowledges an ultimate end.

Either it’s yours or mine!

Allah Khair….. Khairul Rabul Alameen Yah Arrahmanur Yah Raheem

Ummah Thurab – Badshah Khan.
©UT-BK 2019
Rubayiat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust)
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