"crusade" poems
Wonder child
Use me up
Like money
Use me up
Like drugs
We'll run away from the world
Just you and me
A ******* crusade
Campaign for a life of luxury
Where love is fast
And dope is free
I'll leave you addicted to me
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
553
One Crucifixion is recorded—only—
How many be
Is not affirmed of Mathematics—
Or History—
One Calvary—exhibited to Stranger—
As many be
As persons—or Peninsulas—
Gethsemane—
Is but a Province—in the Being’s Centre—
Judea—
For Journey—or Crusade’s Achieving—
Too near—
Our Lord—indeed—made Compound Witness—
And yet—
There’s newer—nearer Crucifixion
Than That—
6.2k
Long days seem so much longer.
Distance does not make the heart grow fonder.
You’ve conquered the empire of my subconscious.
Your crusade so short,
Yet I hope your reign continues for eons.
We’re far past passive flatteries,
Instead, we fill each other’s hearts with vows.
You mean them now,
But what about a few months?
What if you decide I’m not what you want?
The torment I am slowly approaching,
Consumes my distant soul.
I can hear the sounds of futuristic loathing,
From when you decide this love has taken it’s toll.
So tell me.
How can I pay this inevitable toll?
How can I save us from Cupid’s malicious tyranny?
His arrow is too far lodged within me,
I cannot remove it.
I can only push it farther and farther
Into my heart until it falls out of my back.
But this arrow, trenchant.
Cupid, the sharpest of marksmen.
Yet colorblind, he is.
He sees not what colors his targets represent.
He draws his bow for the pure love of marksmanship.
Sometimes, yet not often,
He will hit the intended target.
But the odds are scarce.
His subjects are often punctured,
And connected to one whom reciprocated Fate’s desire.
Yet this time…
This time…
Cupid must have hit a target of Fate’s approval.
For thrice he has missed.
This time He and Fate are in sync.
This wound may stretch over time,
But the arrow shall remain firmly lodged within my *****
***** and immovable.
Until you kick it through my backside.
But until then,
I can only endure.
I can only be woo wounded.
I can only survive,
Another ambush of the militant called Cupid.
But I will do it for you,
For by you,
I’ve been so divinely seduced.
Wooed by your lips.
Not by your kiss,
But by the music,
Which your mandibles so express.
I desire not to seal this wound,
But to evade its’ repercussions.
For I have endured a similar wound thrice.
He is winged as if an angel,
Yet Was Lucifer not once an angel as well?
Cupid is an impostor.
A spy of Agony, himself.
He prays on the young, the old, the strong, and the weak.
He cares not who he obliterates in his crusades.
He is a bloodthirsty heathen.
He makes scoundrels of Saints,
And Harlots of Housewives.
Saint Valentine is no Saint.
He is Satan’s nightmare.
At first, his arrows are ecstasy,
But like a cancer,
His poison-saturated arrows
Seep deep within every crevice of your body.
They consume you as if enriched with ******
And eventually rot within your *****
Until it is nothing but dust and a memory.
One day I will assassinate Fate’s Malicious militant,
The one we call Cupid.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
let me paint you a picture
in shades of black and white
in shades of those who ****
and those who fight
this is what racism looks like
black men with paper hearts
armed with cardboard swords
white men dipped in ivory steel
white men born armed with skin
it's a black man with hands
raised to the heavens
and seeing hell as his last sight
this is what racism feels like
it's your black breath
being ****** out of your lungs
by white hands of white men
dressed in blue gilded in gold
this is what racism sounds like
it's an 18-year old's last words
it's a mother's cry at a police station
it's a bullet racing through the air
this is what racism is
it is not poetry
it's a black man wearing a red shirt
and getting shot six times
this is no crusade
there is no holy purpose
this is the star-spangled truth
a flag drenched in black blood
this is the truth bared in ink
and no poetry can save it
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
Please Goddess of the Golden Spark
I'm lost and have no idea where to start
Please Goddess of the Golden Spark
This is why I pray to you
The coffee is ice cold
My father is getting old
The walls are growing mold
And my beer is warm and going flat
I'm suffering from a headache
I feel so out of place
Self-conscious of my pace
But I feel I should ignore all that
Yes Goddess of the Golden Spark
My light for when it's dark
Yes Goddess of the Golden Spark
My maxim that always gets me through
Light up your torch and lead the way
Forget tomorrow and live for today
Disregard what the peanut galleries say
For they're incapable of understanding what you're doing
Do anything and everything, be inspired
Work until you perspire
And reach your deep desires
A task you won't retire even if you've reach your goal
No Goddess of the Golden Spark
The Coyote howls it doesn't bark
I won't neglect, I'll do my part
Opportunities endless, mistakes I know there will be a few
So yes, I know the world is infinite
The sun will shine and the moon will rise
That yesterday is gone and tomorrow has yet to exist
Then we are to discover the unknown
Oh Goddess of the Golden Spark
May today be marked
Oh Goddess of the Golden Spark
Though these times may seem stark
I now embark of my travels
A crusade to find land and sea of new
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 5:39 PM UTC
My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.
My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.
A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.
A devilish ********** of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.
Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.
A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.
Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.
Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.
Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.
A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.
A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)
A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.
A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.
A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.
An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.
A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.
A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.
Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.
A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.
Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
*Have anthologized every
cerebration of mine,
finding myself snared in
dogmatic mysteries of cosmos.
My cognitive contents are
razing & vitiating,
leaving a brobdingnagian lacuna.
Striving to surmount it but,
incapable of sating the one that
domiciliates within
my èlan vital.*
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
Through the serendipity of a naive act,
A mere rumour of the bygone tale.
Perceived by a small offense,
Was the story of Riverdale.
A machine of parts and *****
Built for an arithmetical crusade,
Channeled with high voltage,
The tool for every complex barricade.
For science has toyed with his destiny,
For his life was a written code,
For his face was made of metal alloy,
For his troubles laid on the same road.
For his calculations were neat as heaven,
As his binary numbers were perfectly synch,
Like the sun rising on an early day,
Like the rain falling on the same clay.
But the story took a seismic turn,
His mind was on a number's high,
When like lightning came she,
A thunderstorm from a clear sky
A mermaid out of the blue sea,
She touched his metal face,
For she had seen none of like him.
But that touch created a little spark,
In the metal heart out of chances that slim.
As his codes discharged to form a conscious wave,
For the metal mind felt the aura,
For the metal body moved to dance,
For Riverdale loved that girl,
For she was his fading chance.
But do the humans understand love?
I doubt they do, for the metal heart,
Was driven out from the lands.
For his story never had a start.
The sin of emotion, the bliss of pain,
For his metal heart rusted in vain.
Over his kingdom of broken dreams,
Neither did she, nor a soul felt his reign.
As his metal body rusted away,
In the aura of an insane world,
Where love is a jewellery reserved,
For this misery has now unfurled,
He died a metal death with a humane heartbreak.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
When you shed that chrysalis of clothing
Releasing the dragonfly wings of your longing
Wholly among the sanctity of your skystrung ribs
Your hips gyrating on the revolutions of the moon
The astronomer in my belly burns to look up to the sky
And see you spreading yourself among the singing night
My fingers, matches skywriting
The contours of your body
With the lingerings of fire
Nails soft scratching the runes of desire
Among the hidden temples of your skin
A secret language you twistup and rumble
In like the sea swallowing a storm
Inviting me to wade in your waters
Till the lighting comes
To reunite you with the heavens
Let me lick a long crusade
From summit of spine down
The long whirling dervish of your legs
Relight wildfires only to douse them in all
The tsunami of your wet
And wash you in the convergence of thunder
As it rumbles among the fault lines of your bones
Till we rattle the pearly gates loose
And quake the caverns of hell
Grind yourself upon me into
Something so much
Sweeter then stardust
Break your body open
Into a firefly and ignite
Upon the rough embers of my wings
This friction will elicit a diction
Spoken only in vowels and the
And in the crescent arch of your spine
As we sling ourselves skyward as fireworks
To rupture open the night
Suffocate me on the whirlwind mane of your hair
There is a lioness behind those lips waiting to devour me
A sacred hunting upon moonlight to take me in the dark
Don’t you see
All of this is yours
The rumble of the earth
The heavy breath of the heavens
The match
The candle
And the sweet rush of the burn
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC
I grew up in a home
where words like "atheist" and "agnostic",
if uttered, were shoved under rugs
or place mats or quilt-work sentiments reading
"God Bless This Home"
And so I too, would hide from those who hid
from God.
But then amongst the distaste and disregard of things
less than God,
I Became An Evangelist!
Ah, yes!
Because whose soul doesn't want to be saved
by a thirteen year old with a clever Christian
saying on his shirt that's a size too small?
But not only that, no.
I dragged my friends along with me.
We were, in fact, a regular children's crusade.
But I was a little bigot.
I pushed away those who
pushed away God,
shocked at the thought
that anyone could not believe
in what now seems
completely
unbelievable.
I even scorned the science teacher
who had the audacity to introduce
the evil of evolution.
I was on fire.
But then the Devil himself
put Kurt Vonnegut on my lap.
Yes, I accredit my loss of faith
to a crazy science fiction writer.
At least, he pushed the first domino.
And my God, I was afraid.
Afraid of feelings of distance
Afraid of questions that never seemed
to have an answer.
Afraid I was losing myself.
I struggled with the traditional questions, of course:
Why would a benevolent God send good people
to hell for not believing? Is he that insecure?
If he is omnipotent, wouldn't he know what
he was getting into when he created such sinful
little *****
Why should we be indicted simply because we
were born?
How does He expect me to give Him my entire life?
Fast forward about four years.
I'm eating lunch with my oldest sister,
a philosophy major, no less.
She tells me how she experienced almost
the exact same thing I did.
And after an inward struggle of four years, finally I had the courage to admit my Agnosticism to myself.
I simply did not know.
How could I?
But now I'm left to deal with my friends,
and most of all my mother.
I should not feel guilty for my beliefs, or lack thereof.
I am an agnostic.
I am a humanist.
I am on fire.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 7:42 PM UTC
Crusades way to old?
Or bring on the ******
Or hey not fair questions.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
~
*Salvation comes with a price--
Pried open doors,
choir songs of fingerdust
resurrecting goldrush,
and a pretty little
cromulent called whitewash.
New century martyrs
have risen up to burn books,
and quotes,
and tongues,
and every contrariwise thought,
--is this intuition or inquisition?
What ascends is trapped within
tenebrific clouds,
returning to barren ground
when it rains unholy prayers.
They don't crusade for you or me.
They contest for dominion and mastery.
Those who believe are mooncalf.
This torchlight of intolerance
sends out skyrockets,
and away it goes!
trending on your homepage:
Past generations
burning at the stake,
at the hands of sinners clothed as saints,
in cathedral oblivion,
dismembering their future
in the blood of their own children.
Amen?*
~
Mar 25, 2021
Mar 25, 2021 at 10:18 AM UTC
Everything she writes is tagged
#DEPRESSION
You break my heart, know.
Even with these chemical
bonds holding me together,
these frail spiderwebs
weaving around ventricles,
you shatter them like a
calm breeze, playing child,
a secret told to the wrong set of ears.
The characters in (y)our plays [on words]
are the crux of (y)our matters.
We're all ancillary like stepping stones;
pity (y)our destination begs leaving
no stone unturned.
My stepping stones are tablets, though.
20mg doses of baby steps,
crossing voids like I see in (y)our eyes.
My mouth is cavernous,
my throat the steps to hell
(wide and steep and too easy to trip down).
Each night - a crusade to save me.
Each morning - a body count.
One. Good enough for me.
Each time I sign on - the body count grows.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
Kamran Javed I'll answer in public
I'm not arguing with you.
As you seem to take issue in all we do
Your a Muslim I get it and respect you for that
So get off my back because I'm not!
In not Muslim or Christian nor infidel
I'm human and loving and reasoned as well
So I didn't put "Holy" before your Quoran
Or glorious or blessed and your not happy with that
So now I'll explain and then say no more
Take your crusade to another's door
The term "Holy" only proceeds a text if you follow..
I've read it and don't I don't worship Allah
To a Christian the bible is "Holy" To you it is a book .
To a Muslim the the Quoran is "Holy" to a Christian a book.
I don't follow either that is my choice
So don't try to impose your religious ideology on me
Or others that comment FREE SPEECH IS FREE
Remember the site is for poetry too
Not to convert to Islam with you
Learn some tolerance for others who write
You decided to post here, your choice alright
If the world's out to get you ask yourself why?
You like to take issue with all that we write
I and others agree and praise what you say
You argue and don't take it that way
It isn't personal don't make it so
This site is for poems not war or crusade
So blessed by Allah and your holy book
I respect your religion and your way of life
If you don't like mine I don't give a flying spaghetti monster
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 7:36 AM UTC
Compassion, compassion
Poets, viewers, poems with injurious remarks
Why we do the things we do?
We were born to suffer together
a poet who asked his viewers to feel his pain
Throughout the lines, while tearing down the barriers
that separate and divide the poet and the readers
I bluntly said to that poet, one heart, and one love
If I was to say to that poet: death is good for some people
They deserve to die a painful death,
Am I asking too much of the poet to show empathy:
Who gave him the right, to steer me through his attitude and guilt
Who gave him the right, too asked of me to join a sympathetic crusade?
right now I'm in the process of turning empathy off and say buzz off Man!
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
-
Even if the storm does cease, And in
your heart there lies in rapture, hope
that next time with strength increase, we
take torrential rains and winds disaster, live
to cast them off our hearts crusade, without
eyes wide open don't see the shore, the fear
in infinity infinities of unexplored ocean evade, of
who to trust I know no more. limitation.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 8:12 PM UTC
Oh, crees tu?
Te consagrare
Estoy sangrando para ti
Oh, eres mio
Estoy muriendome para ti
As Peter stands alone in the battlefield
He prays to God, his only shield
But the shield
Was not blessed
Who will walk by his side
When he marches into the crusade
A King not fit to wear his crown
Who rested on the Judgment Day?
Recuerdas tu?
Los angeles tuvieron
Ojos negros
Oh eres mio
Yo capturare tu aureola
Y la llevare al infierno
Loneliness, as told by Peter
Is an illuminated script
Just worn through years of long stagnation
And hangs upon a crucifix
How does it feel to feel nothing
To strive, to fear, to achieve something
You know will never reach the end
Just darkness around the ******* bend
Oh, yo no creo nunca mas
Yo no te quiero
No tiene sentido
Oh, yo no te adoro nunca mas
Estoy cansado de perseguirte
Y me duelen los pies
And as I grew, I always knew
That I was disillusioned
For footprints never followed me
To Babylon or Galilee
Oh, I betrayed them all three times, three times, three times, three times
While singing hymns and stupid nursery rhymes, rhymes, rhymes, rhymes
About walking with that boy to battle
I saw his flag in the light
And I regret, not being there
To watch the disciples fight
A smile, a smile, a cross, a cross
Across the hill
Towards Paradise Lost
2-3 part harmony:
Part 1: (No te quiero
No, I don’t want you
No te quiero
No, I don’t love you
No te quiero
I don’t want to fight for you)
Part 2: Paraiso Perdido, Perdido, Perdido
Paraiso Perdido, Perdido….
Part 3: He stands alone in the battlefield…
He stands alone in the battlefield
He stands alone in the battlefield
We all stand alone in the battlefield
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 9:20 PM UTC
We have been invited to a masquerade
We take a moment to halt this crusade
In life There are ups and downs, side to sides, like plaid
In order to find the good inside of us, we must get through the bad
We have been invited to a masquerade
Even though we may feel as if we are being betrayed
Rivers that separate rich folk, poor folk, your folk, my folk
I think it’s time the world finally awoke
We have been invited to a masquerade
We stare, never moving, without a choice, like the milk maid
Dance, sing, anything! I shouldn’t have to persuade
We have been invited to a masquerade
This is not a time to maim, blame or downgrade
We no longer spit our deadly lines
These life lessons should be taken as signs
Be careful what you think, because your thoughts are not your own
“Where did you get this inspiration?” You ask,
Well dear, from my home
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 4:20 PM UTC
Where does solitude end
And the beauty of love begin?
We must allow our emotions to permeate
Our spiritual vestibule
Before rapture dawns
Like an empyreal gust
Within, upon, and throughout us,
Then our bliss will no longer be ephemeral,
It will be everlasting.
Someone on this existential expanse
Loves you
Beyond words, Beyond thoughts, beyond
Time & space,
With cosmic understanding;
Like, age-old supernovae
Radiating with stellar light
Until their macrocosmic romance
Waxes nebulous:
—Dust to dust.
You who are gleaning these words,
Contemplate your immortal value
As a living legacy
That Burgeons & blossoms beyond the day
Of your exodus from the Earthly Plane
For the soul is a seed
Radiating with the Eradia of Ages;
Therefore, shine
Until The Flora of Yore, Yggdrasil germinates within.
Lamentation makes you more loving,
Just, wise, and strong;
Yes, embrace every moment
That life brings
For Providence safeguards you
Within His Celestial ramparts.
"But the path of the righteous is like the bright morning light
That grows brighter and brighter until full daylight."
(Proverbs 4: 18) (NWTSE)
You have an undying will within you,
You are a vessel of sanctity
Intemerate & hallowed;
Yes, you have been set apart
For an ethereal crusade
With no known beginning &
An indeterminable end;
Exhale, you are Life, Love, and Liberty,
And a Spark of The Divine.
It is true, that you are the experiencer of
Your joys, your sufferings,
Your exultation, and your woes,
But you must ne' er forget
That you are not alone;
Therefore, walk forevermore
In the Baptismal Rays of The Sun
For you were borne with purpose,
O, Warrior of Light.
Jun 4, 2021
Jun 4, 2021 at 1:48 PM UTC
that light hair color
the crusade necklace
and the way he behaves like a brat
whenever I make a sad face
I like them all, all of him
especially how he cling on to me
leaning his head to mine like a cat
he got me thinking,
I might have fallen for him
I fall in love with an idiot
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
Though my existence is very minute compared to others,
my mind is unrestrained and limitless.
My thoughts are inspired
by even the smallest speck of dust
to the largest of the universes.
It is able to imprison the deepest of secrets,
but able to reminisce the most distant memory.
No one else has the capability to see what I see,
to remember what I remember;
to the most minuscule detail.
From the day I am born till the day I leave this earth.
This may sound serene;
however there is a constant crusade with my other half.
To indicate what is correct and what is erroneous.
Occasionally, neither can respond to the problem at hand.
Then the ground is neutral
till something changes in the outside world.
But this inner world is permanently in control.
No other power of government or enemy
can break in and create a new dictatorship.
No soul can relive what I relive in my mind
each and every day.
Nothing has the force to eliminate
what I've seen or done.
No power can absorb my multifaceted emotions.
As long as I live,
my mind is secure,
and will always be protected.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
Arise Great Britain, swell wi pride
this is no time tae split, divide,
a hero needs us on his side
a man apart
Brave Osbourne comes wi manly stride
and lion heart
When danger ca’s, he stauns and fights
He’ll haud the baddies bang tae rights
Nou in their een he sees the whites
and yells, “Attack!”
He’s got oor mojo in his sights –
He wants it back!
Let’s cheer his valour tae the roof
Condemn the wans wha’d cry him couff
And pray oor Geordie’s bulletproof
As on he flies
Then fit him wi a parachute
and wave guidbye.
This GM perfect Tory clone
need not rely on un-manned drone
He’ll tackle ISIS on his own
their fight dissolve
His pores squirt pure testosterone
his eyes, resolve
Just watch the baddies turn and flee
as George, wi patriotic glee
wreaks vengeance for democracy
a one-man dojo
And cries, “Come, Britain, flock to me,
and feel my mojo!”
Or mibbes we should check this twice.
Although the image may be nice
The blood we risk on his advice
may never stop -
But Geordie will not sacrifice
one ****** drop
These profiteering pinstripe ******
wha ken no life but politics
Are no the first tae play these tricks
while deals are made
Why no just wave a crucifix
and shout “Crusade!”
So hooses burn and horror grows
A stream o misery outflows
While braggard Geordie struts and crows,
"Ye want a fight?"
I’d dump him on Damascus road
tae see the light
Ye plot the death o innocents
Tae score yir points in parliament
Yir fascist mocking o dissent
it suits ye well
George Osbourne, ye're a proper gent
**** ye tae hell.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC