"reprisal" poems
Just a wicked peacenik’n quick draw from the Paw
Game of Thrones’n the Shah, cRussian bones of the law
And still spewing the news like the red dragon’s maw
When the baby-skull splitters want nuclear winter
Ideal New Cold steel and send Chernobyl shivers
Down Roman Republicans’ severed headlines
Till there’s no more dead kids on for prophet front lines
I’m in exile sharpenin’ [sic]kles in style
Pyongyang’n Kuomintang climate denials
Erasing their nation-hate racial profiles
Outpacing their skinhead disgraces by miles
Shell casin’ this place like the Nuremberg trials
For Fords sellin’ swastikas stockpile bibles
Defiled by Normandy tide genocidals
Fresh meat off the boat spreadin’ Plague mercantiles
I smile and **** ‘em with kindness
Then grind
Battle tax in my acid bath
Salt Marchin’ prime
Because WAR IS THE CRIME
I’m the Clown Prince of Rhyme,
Level 9 state of mind
Like the state of Rakhine
The Black Hand before time
Runnin’ Africa’s Luciest Sky Diamond mine
I’m the ronin alone in
The monkey god shrine
And my guile’s reprisal’s Versailles treaty signed
Strippin’ pride from the Rhine
‘Till your Motherland’s mine
Swine
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 2:37 AM UTC
Frre from the stress that has you depressed.
Free from the distraction that keeps you disconnected.
Similar to those held down.
Once freedom is achieved.
Your whole world feels turned around.
Unlike the emancipation proclaimation.
Which was just a signed symbolic act.
You afraid to move willingly.
Until your proposal is met.
Not afraid of reprisal from your enemies.
Because your freedom was achieved by your own reasonings.
Others lives according to fear.
But you convinced with truth that in some ways you're not affected.
The Emancipation Proclaimation passage.
Has beeen everlasting concerning freedom for some.
While others were held in *******
To be free.
Means you move according to your rules.
As long as the decisions affects only you.
Not one to be hunted because others refuses to accepts truth.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 9:09 AM UTC
(Composed by Billy Liebert; Recorded by John Wayne -1973)
Face the Flag of stars and bars,
Of red and white and blue,
A flag that guarantees the rights
For men like me and you.
Face the Flag, son! Read what's written there--
The history, the progress and the heritage we share.
Our flag relects the past, son, but stands for so much more,
And in this Age of Aquarius, it still flies in the fore.
It leads the forward movement, shared by all mankind,
To learn...to love...to live with peace of mind;
To learn the mysteries of space, as well as those of earth;
To love each man for what he is, regardless of his birth;
To live without the fear of reprisal for belief;
To ease the tensions of a world that cries out for relief.
Face the Flag of stars and bars,
Of red and white and blue,
A flag that guarantees the rights
For men like me and you.
Face the Flag, son! Take a good long look.
What you're seeing now can't be found in a history book.
It's the present and the future, son. It's being written now,
And you're the one to write it, but the flag can show you how.
Do you know what it stands for? What its makers meant?
To think...to speak...the privilege of dissent;
To think our leaders might be wrong...to stand and tell them so.
These are the things that other men under other flags will never know.
But responsibility...that's the cross that free men must bear,
And if you don't accept that, the freedom isn't there.
Face the Flag of stars and bars,
Of red and white and blue,
A flag that guarantees the rights
For men like me and you.
Face the Flag, son, and face reality.
Our strengths and our freedoms are based in unity.
The flag is but a symbol, son, of the world's greatest nation,
And as long as it keeps flying, there's cause for celebration.
So do what you've got to do, but always keep in mind,
A lot of people believe in peace...but there are the other kind.
If we want to keep these freedoms, we may have to fight again.
God forbid, but if we do, let's always fight to win,
For the fate of a loser is futile and it's bare:
No love, no peace...just misery and despair.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 7:04 PM UTC
My cell phone lights up
Its my friend George:
*Come back to the hospital Chris
You cannot afford to miss this*
I stare at my withered face a little longer
in the mirror
My reflection has been torn asunder
I look tired, unfit to wear the uniform
thrown under my desk
Combing my hair, checking my teeth
I allow this present demon to dissipate
Amongst the broken tendrils
of haunting thoughts
And a horrible screaming cacophony
Meeting my gaze and preparing
for whatever the weather
has become outside
Pulled by a premise of the reprisal
to my fantasy
Perhaps the length of this silence
Is actually foreshadowing a miracle
I believe
I'm led by the shadows
of alternate realities
Harnessing the power to stifle this sequestering doubt
and all my fears
As I shut the door, I walk with footsteps
That imagine running to greet you
Holding you tight and holding back tears
As if it was the first time I'd meet you
I strengthen my resolve
It brings me pain to revolve
My strained thoughts
Around fairy tales
All the while Jacoby Shaddix is echoing
'She loves me not'
My third eye blind pushes me in
'The background'
And simultaneously, I tell myself
'Keep the soul, that's control'
I feel my heart pounding in my chest
Beads of sweat trace the lines of my palms
Because I know that if I had seen her today
I could leave everything else behind
It would all be beautifully different
Instead I receive the most disappointing news this week
Because I've learned that when the difference between
What you know and what you believe
Is rubbed in your nose and laid at your feet
Even that cupcake...
And everything else is bittersweet
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC
Sitting here, thinking about death, about which death to choose, about which passing of time to write about. I am sweating, like, hold your breath or die sweat. It is hot here, but it isn't the temperature that is making my glands leak, it is the memories, it is the death grip that takes my heart when i remember, when i write about life leaving, silence stealing from the night.
Heroine. She's a tuff-tender ***** with soft sleepy skin, the daughter of Morpheus, who takes your breath and holds it inside you. Somniferous, She likes to sit alongside you while you die, she holds your hand and whispers in your ear, allaying fear and slowly she wraps her fingers around your lungs. So tired, of this world, of this life; you think, i'll just close my eyes, nothing new about being on the nod, nothing strange about this tiredness that follows a quick projectile puke in the gutter.
Let sleeping dogs lie.
Writing about Overdosing. It is a strange thing, a quick story, one minute your blinking, nodding, often murmuring, then asleep.
Lucky the dog who runs in a pack.
Lucky the man who walks with strangers by his side.
I don't remember much of what happened before i closed my eyes.
A shot, pin ***** relief, then, quickly/slowly/gone. It is night out, with a dark and steady sky, I am watching the stars through slitted eyes and loving my life, loving my wife; ****** how she makes my heart sing. I am glad to be far from withdrawing, i am happy to be in sin with my lovers, stainless steel turemo picks.
It is my first blast for the night and apparently my last.
There is no warning, no red flag that appears in my minds eye. Just silence and a world fading away. A heartbeat disappearing. Short shallow breath and a small niggling concern that soon will come the time when i am not high then...
I am going. I am gone. I have died.
The strangest thing about dying is not dying. The hardest thing about it all is waking up and realising you were finally gone, you were finally done with the rigmorale, the procedure, of living, of life. You had reached the ultimate goodbye. And now you are back. Still high but not high enough to be faced with the living. Narcan gives your lungs back, it breathes back into you what She stole away. Wanting more then ever to ***** but not wanting to puke on the paramedics lap. Fear of police and reprisal, anxiety soars high on the agenda of the recently revived. A trip the hospital, a free ride, then signing out early, i have shots to blast, a past to wipe out, a life to live or die trying.
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 5:01 PM UTC
metromonic irregularities
of flawless infinity
particularized by lack of action
to create a participation in time
is the savage reprisal
of defiant elements
that challenge conspicuous masks
of isolated illusory expedient frugality
where there is an instistance on a fiction
of invented death without recognition
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 4:34 PM UTC
this flourishing silence feels more of
a trite hack-job than it is a writing stint.
my fingers (frenzied, brazen) continue to tap
and my mind starts to spill like a spigot
left open. I have taken to smoking and laughing
away
in an obscured day for myself in the parking lot
and sometimes I can do without company; only the snarl
of the well-oiled tractor in front of me.
the days are full of yellow and the Sun is a dog
on a leash. the roses smell of brine and their slender
stems bones of the young.
I can see cheeks flushed with red and skirts
neatly trimmed just above knobby knees
and I know somewhere in that tender flesh,
a man sifts without knowing what it feels to eat
bone before flesh, flesh after bone. my silently augured
procurement of today’s induced comatose is but
a Freudian slip – the world with its burly physique
is a chauvinistic man
drinking whisky in the red light district of hazy Makati.
each slapdash word in penitent reprisal
is the moment’s clearest reprieve. I am glad that this room
is darker than the eyes of the love I have lost
staring back with a mound of the abysmal or the yearnings
of a chagrined mother startled back to her home;
it must be dreamy, the dogs outside pant in heat
and the obnoxious *** of vehicles outside bears the cadence
of two people starting to fall in love: all chaotic and unmoving,
fastened to the Earth, aware of the passing minutes,
wishing to be somewhere else but there.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
I long
to be nothing to somebody.
Discarded as the filter,
that peace
keeping this toxicity
at abated levels,
after you've used me
and have left nothing but ash.
Toss me aside
so dust and I may meet
rebuilding my being.
Fear not this poison,
over-exposure occurs within moments
and hence,
this making you, wretch,
will leave you immune.
Wanting to look into your eyes
fluttering as shades drawn
to allow us our privacy,
shutting off you from
me recomposing,
we are perfect together.
Disgust, your first impression
does well for my mirror,
destruction willing, my reprisal.
Shatter this looking back,
use shards of what's left to pluck heartstrings,
slide your glass-edged bow across these vocal chords,
allow all to hear the cacophony of a failing being.
Lose yourself, my torment
your release, emotion
but false memory.
Allow me your feet,
a subservient posture
dipping to welling eyes,
glistening to the light
of our true deaths, notes
and screams punctuated by
inkwell swelled wrists while
we fall six feet beneath
these sheets
and roll in our seductive graves.
Once there's been enough
shoveled on top
that we may be laid
to rest,
find comfort knowing
you've stolen my breath.
I long
to be nothing to somebody,
discarded, tossed aside
so the next to come needn't pick me up,
filtering my words through the masks we wear.
So I may be free to fall by this way,
not caring when I am lost.
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 2:19 PM UTC
Bittersweet Seventeen,
Ophelia drove me absent of fear,
And chaotically -
Led me to bridges most unclear.
Embittered Eighteen,
She exposed her lethal shrine,
And recklessly –
I sunk in her deathly design.
By and by,
I now exist with one dead eye.
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 10:56 PM UTC
angels.
angels who miss their wings at 3 am when they feel more out of place in this body then before, angels who need pain to bring themselves out of their dreams, who ink themselves with words only prophets would understand; angels who have the most ordinary jobs like bus drivers and paper boys, people see them and think about them for moments too long.
angels who turn to drinking and smoking, trying to forget the feeling of their wings pushing air behind them as they flew. angels who can't avoid the call of the sky and become pilots who are always drinking coffee because the caffeine reminds them of the golden ichor that was once flowing through their veins.
vengeful angels who become pilots as well, who terrorize the winged folk to feel powerful again, to feel control again. angels who message each other, fingers trembling as they type out their dreams, trying to grab those memories that are just out of reach, gauzy and filled with blood and silver-tinted skin and golden eyes and so many feathers. angels who live in church basements and see pictures of themselves in the stained glass windows and go unclothed, trying to reach that feeling of purity, freedom.
fallen angels who burn churches, filling their lungs with smoke as they climb to the steeple, not just from reprisal but from the feeling of mutiny. angels who ride out into the country alone with a handful of stolen cash who steal from nearly empty gas stations and throw rocks at the windows of abandoned barns after they've climbed to the roof and back to earth. angels who streak their backs with ashes because they don't have the scars that they should from having their wings torn away and the golden ichor doesnt bleed away and stain the ground like it used to.
angels who hang out in bookstores and coffee shops because they're looking for an oracle or someone, anyone, who will listen to their impossible dreams of flight and blood spattering the ground, of fighting and dying and they can't explain it.
angels with shaky hands who try to find love because there's something missing and everyone tells them that love will help them, and maybe it does, but there are always angels out there who have loved and loved and there is still something BROKEN, something LOST, and it's been pounded into their minds that they'll never know what it is. angels who run with demons and devils because there's nothing quite like the rush of running in the dark, standing at the edge of the city and feeling the wind nearly blow you off as you curl your toes on the edge of the roof, so close to the sky it takes their breath away.
angels.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 9:12 PM UTC
Oh Lord, grant me the gift of retribution
Let my determination stay the course
Before the day of their absolution
Oh Lord, help me before my final inhalation
For my enemies I feel no remorse
Oh Lord, grant me the gift of retribution
Oh Lord, I ask not for salvation
My adversaries I shall unhorse
Before the day of their absolution
Oh Lord, for my foes the final execution
Eye for an eye, take their life by force
Oh Lord, grant me the gift of retribution
Oh Lord, protect me from retaliation
Sacrifice and prayers my only recourse
Before the day of their absolution
Lost humanity, I have no reservation
For the reprisal I shall endorse
Oh Lord, grant me the gift of retribution
Before the day of their absolution
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
heaven above guide wheels gone reeling
send the strength to ward from grieving
for the forces without whose sweetly singing
calls toward the crash in the trash from the mess i bring
because once more i bore in the echoing
because i grow from lonely echoes
brimstone below fill veins with fire
send what strength ignores desire
that in change i enslave them with my choir
billowing so softly but brought to screams, deceiving
because once more i bore in the echoing
i barb my wounds and heart as i descend on scene
impacting, wings bound, and bleeding
scheming
to **** the evidence
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 6:58 AM UTC
We know Stephen.
We know Andrew, James and Peter.
We know Thomas.
Plus ll disciples required mission and goals.
But we, who sits next to one another in church?
We, who walk in faith?
Holds just as much weight upon our shoulders.
For we are Jesus disciples.
Like them that followed him.
That level of power is within us.
For we are Jesus disciples.
We required to spread the word.
Words many still hadn't heard.
For fear of reprisal or political complaints.
We will be attacked, blocked and spit at.
Same as Jesus disciples and Jesus himself.
Sincere prayers given will be answered.
And like the coming of Christ returning.
We just can't say when.
But as Jesus disciples we will be protected.
Simply for being firm to spread the world.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
Things we used to be
Or rather that which we are still
We as in I
I as in you
You as in me
Just a pair of eyes
Disembodied, disinherited
Then a word or two
Spoken uncertainly, with imperfect diction
Next came a body coated matte
Appearance totally flat
A reprisal of the reeling mind
Discontented, self remarked
Struck like fells of flak shells
Wrack
Emotive motion to inhale pain pill smoke
Foiled
Spoiled through imparts of ignorance
Palette saturated, severance pre-packed
Wheeze ever
A bio beat box, palpitate off tempo
Disharmony collate
Chaos culture, we the cancer self-castrating earth
Bastardized with sickly sounding mirth
Loudest, proudest, irreverent
Disclaimers
Naked
Reclamation
The origin known as nature
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
Who is the Artist and who is the Man, What differences lay therein?
Who is it that struggles more or less, is it a monopoly one over the other?
It is in the minds of all men to seek serenity and peace, to stand and hope for this is common to all.
Yes, we all have this in common, but the Artist has the tools with which to utter man’s dissent. This dissent to the injustices and violence’s waged upon the world and upon ourselves.
However, if the Artist believes that he is inculpable of these same injustices; his beliefs are that of indolence. For the Artist is no different in terms of the flesh and bone we speak of; this cage is inherent to all.
Struggle is also inherent. Who is it that has not done so? In this day and age as in most ages past, we have witnessed the violent upheaval of country against country, neighbor against neighbor. Americans and the world have watched towers and airplanes fall from the sky. And while this is agreeably horrific, we enlist and unleash a nationally based reprisal against our fellow human beings.
Yes, justice must be served, but it must be served by calm and learned hands. Some nine years later we find ourselves wallowed deep in the decay of war. And to what end has it been justified. The soldier will say that it is to bestow honor upon his fallen comrades and that is why the fight must go on. The politician will say it is to ensure stability in the affected region. The businessman will say it is to regain stability in the markets.
But the Man, the Woman and child only ask when will this end? The laid off workers, the new lower class of America, the grieving Mothers and Fathers, the limbless young men and woman. What is it that they see? The world’s future lies wounded upon an uncaring street.
And yet, what is it that an artist can do that a man cannot? The artist is a part of the melee, part of this violent soup. He may sit outside the bowl separate from the rest, but he cannot deny his complicity with this.
We must come to terms with our humanity as artists. For the artist to deny this would surely be the greatest lie. It is the twenty first century and we are the Writer’s, the artists of this age. What is it that we are prepared to tell the future? What is it that will be said of us and our work?
Let us not lie to them, let us not squander our opportunity to convey our perceived truths in the most laudable of lights. However we must all confess that we are first and foremost,
Man, simple men and women who struggle, who live, and die, who at times celebrate injustices, who embrace blind thought and bias’s, who breathe and bleed just as they, just as we… We are heartbeat and pulse of these times. But let us not hold that above our brothers and sisters, Let our combined works embrace the common man. For if not for him, Art is meaningless.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 4:33 PM UTC
How real a dream can be
when your mind has no limits
a spirit wandering free
with no human laws to bar you
paradise and exotic places
where you can find happiness
without fear of reprisal
pleasant dreams to nightmare
time and space ours at last
the physical body no resting
travel to the future or past
be in a blockbuster the big hero
or the villain even a pop star
limitless imagination to explore
what we see is for us alone
personal dreams only we own!
The Foureyed Poet.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 3:42 PM UTC
the paved country road swells under the heavy footfalls of the weary warrior
it is the dawn of march and the roses will remember the blush of death no more.
no more that is due to the sullen rock which the freshly smeared crimson slumbers upon
no more that is due to the holy droplets hauntingly trailing their way home from the sky
like divine reprisal
the heavens cry the loss which will be remembered no more that is due.
no more that is due to the village folks strutting about
rejoicing the return of the weary warrior
and his dripping sword.
no more that is due to the chaste maiden weeping in the wet meadow
for her freedom is gained
and another one’s lost.
the weary warrior moves along the muddy path still
while the dripping drizzle heartens his tired soul
for he know that someone does weep for the life which has been forcibly and heartlessly taken that day
that warm day of april struck by lightning and thunder and fragile fury.
it is said that to slay a monster creates another
and to save a life a debt is repaid
for the cost of life
is a life still.
and yet the warrior moves along and does not weep
he’s coming home
and does not stop his heavy footfalls nor the beating of his erratic heart which has been yearning for it.
the fire will burn the remains of the day no more
but the fire was home too
the fire was life
and it has been extinguished.
the wary long-battled warrior is coming home through the cave and the meadow and the country path
for he has seen and lived it all and can never turn away from the scorching tear in his chest
and the village is his home no more.
the village is water and rain and it will not stop just like his tired steps
the whole world has sank away into the water
therefore the tired warrior does not return to the world
and instead he decides to return home.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 10:17 AM UTC
My memories have been hijacked
by a persons jealousy
insecure people just cannot see
they judge you by their morals
pressed down upon you
I must suppress my anger now
for cooler heads prevail
I thought I understood
just a little bit
but clearly as I see things
I am a little hurt
biting on my lip
pacing in my house
like an animal in a cage
It really is no wonder
my mind is in this shape
the gift of stone you gave me
gives me clarity
just one more moment
is all I really need
to tell you just how I feel
and what you've meant to me
You've drawn me out of my shell
again for all to see
my armour has been dented
but my heart is still clean
I will always think of you
in friendship I'm still keen
I've had the same discussions
about this very thing
but the conclusion that I came to
in turn set me free
free from reprisal
and all it's ***** deeds
for friendship with you
is the most important thing.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
Born you are to sing,
Turbid future beckoning
And your past, it seems, is urging,
This new melody emerging
Circumscribed by your death,
Consecrated from first breath,
This perpetual contortion,
Your vociferous misfortune,
Is the sonorous reprisal,
To the silence and the night,
In seraphic orchestration,
Past is settled, future sanctioned,
Though a voice belongs to you,
It is through harmony construed,
But these manifold vibrations,
Every violent incantation,
Every note new sung must blossom, languish,
Meet oblivion
Now your open wound is bleeding,
Life's full bloom, with haste, receding,
Each maenadic spasm leads you,
Supersedes you,
Life begins again,
So if a myriad of mellifluous moments multiplies,
Anticipate its inhumation 'neath the sediment of time,
For as the song, to flourish, wills each note meet its demise,
The singer is unravelled in a death he lives, but can't surmise
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
No, we shall never live on
Thus, we are not crazy
Posthumously stated
Although, not so lately
Words quoted by those
Who ignore the past
Lines from prose
Which ignore final acts
“It’s bombardment
Contamination
Shallow, impromptu
Callous and sad”
So dismayed
Are the critics
At what they can’t have
Without a spotlight on them
Without a solemn reprisal
They tediously sip coffee
And watch in denial
“It will never work, it just mustn’t”
“It can’t be done, for it wasn’t”
Oh, I’m tired of these children
Their fathers and moms
I’m sick of this museum
Now then, let’s all carry on
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 9:43 PM UTC
This selfless,
Godless,
Appearance of oneself;
Resistance,
Sub-sequence,
Is righteous to one’s own Hell.
Reprisal,
Derision,
Submission to the abyss;
Arrival,
A mission,
A taste of vinegar and ****
-
Everything you know is fake.
Your mind won’t ever allow you to make,
An intelligent assertion of what is real,
You choke on what They feed you as veal,
As if this filet was the most prime cut,
You even thank Them for what They’ve done.
They’ve given us “freedom” and so much “wealth”
They have, of course, “NEVER” helped Themself.
To dip into Their own Piggy-Bank,
Their bacon-greased fingers drawing a “blank”.
-
What have They done? What do you really know?
-
As far as it goes, there is no such thing as “freedom” or “wealth”,
A man made concept, excused as “help”
And as far as it goes of Their accepted “help”,
Just know that They have butchered our very health.
-
They’ve bombed Their own ships,
Destroyed Their own buildings,
To inspire you to fear,
To inspire misguided hateful feelings.
-
The people They **** every single day
Are not what you would right now expect,
It is not the war over the ocean and waves,
It is here that They attack.
-
Men who run financial institutions
Take from Their companies in dissolution,
Given help from Their own evil friends,
These men claim to own, and conspire again.
The word “greed” is but to low a word to give means,
To these grotesque difuckingsgusting “human” beings,
They take and take and tell us to consume,
That’s all we are, scent to the fume,
The growing pyre of our country’s scaffold,
The base, in ashes, is burning tenfold,
Soon it will fall, and what They fear will come,
And I swear I will help see Them undone.
-
Open your eyes, Open your mind.
Race is Irrelevant.
Sexuality is Irrelevant.
Religion is Irrelevant.
Lifestyles are Irrelevant.
We are wolves ruled by snakeheaded sheep,
Brothers and Sisters, we will make Them weep.
-
Coming Together,
We Will Not Fall.
We Will Not Falter.
We Will Not Fail.
Lay Sacrifice to this Altar.
-
It will soon come,
And we will rise,
We will bring light,
To Their truth, despised.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
Oh, there's not a country that don't have open racism.
It's breed in many regions and societies.
Except some confronts it.
Aware of reprisal to come.
While others embraces it.
Until they exposed on video or audio by some.
One race seem to be mastered of stupidity.
Cause they surrounded by various fools that let it floats around them.
Notice, how quick they speaks out when that bigot is busted?
Oh, its in politics.
It's in within many businesses.
And breed within multiple police departments.
From the top until the bottom.
Open racism, stands out like cancer.
It spreads quickly and faster than lightning.
Until its met by thunder of someone.
Then notice all the pleasantry toward the racist.
They not a bad person.
Many misunderstood their views.
Yes, support for a fool.
Then many, are we?
Scriptures, contains them too.
And many ministers doesn't address this truth..
Afraid certain members might leave.
But never play to a disease.
Not if you're preaching love in Jesus name.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 8:23 AM UTC
burning a flag is also a symbol, a symbol of freedom in the face of tyranny, a symbol of protest against a nation whos people have come to believe no longer represents their interests, or openly try to curtail their freedoms (like burning the flag)...it is a symbol to our military personnel that they have gone out to fight for freedom, so that we here in america can have the right to express ourselves without fear of reprisal. the flag is the personal symbol of every american's right to speak and be heard, and if burning the flag is the only thing that tyrants and their willing followers will hear, then i am a proud american who will burn an american flag to protest this tyranny
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
shattered
torn asunder
in the maelstrom
the churning
of colliding seas
how we
were tsunamis
cast from foreign worlds
towering o'er star-crossed shores
devouring civilizations
those were my dreams
and there
with light eclipsing the sun
were angels
whilst God commanded
who should be saved
and who would meet
their end
by the maws
of the surging grave
the tides if death
the vengeance we partook o'er evil
to sap the fires
of the cannibals' cauldrons
of the wicked witches' works
of the devil's deed scouring the lands of innocence
tilling world for harvests of souls
God warred with fury
with wrath untold
with heaven's war cries raging, bold
I saw the towers
fall as dominoes
shrieks of villainy
soups of human flesh spilled,
feasts ruined in droves
and I ne'er wept so poorly
ne'er kissed the ground so humbly
watching the world overturned in its savagery
by change so indomitable
by goodness so gracious
but I had
as all children do
given up my dreams
of being heroic
of being a champion
for justice
was God's alone
I gave up my visions
of power unassailable
of justice that trounces reprisal
of vengeance beyond sin,
I gave it all up to God
to a victor
who is more
than a conqueror
to a being
who is love incarnate
whose surrender
is destruction loosed upon the wicked
whose mercy
touches only those who art cleansed
of their murderous hearts
and their chaotic whims
I gave up my power
to the redeemer of all who art redeemed
and to the devils I say,
woe betide those who consort
with the fallen one
whose days shall no longer be numbered
when the gates of damnation
close in upon him
and open again
no longer...
Aug 23, 2024
Aug 23, 2024 at 1:44 AM UTC
Denials fears receipts
Lies betrayals deceits
Expectations loss resentments
Perception destruction commitments
Adoration longing craving
Yielding accepting braving
Politics labor expense
Logic confusion dispense
Care concern keenness
New life new world seamless
Divinity concealment hate
Regret trust late
Forgiving losing retake
Patience understanding heartbreak
Dealing retracing abiding
Life God residing
Emotions thoughts dissent
Judgments wisdom repent
Memories traces slaughter
Heart soul fodder
Empathy retraction deafness
Body mind breathless
Oxygen air amiss
Blood veins remiss
Promises sensations overlook
Death sadness overtook
Redemption reprisal regret
Untreated unlearned unmet
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 7:27 AM UTC