"sanctions" poems
Manning up in Texas
Geldof overdose
needles at the bed stand
starlet comatose
California dreaming
killer meets demise
hurling in a taxi
puke fee on the rise
Fighting in the Gaza
Jordan's holy war
rebels on a mission
Jihad underscore
The North Korean riddle
pales in grand design
crisis on the border
planes fall from the sky
Cooking on a deadline
tempting tapenades
herbs are in the spotlight
wines that give a nod
Google maps the body
DOW at record highs
Uber comes to market
corn is on the rise
Apple on its earnings
Caterpillar dead
European sanctions
banks have **** the bed
Clippers threaten boycott
Longhorns follow purge
Lynch is out of training camp
James is on the verge
Leinart taking *** shots
coughing up a lung
lions take a licking
fans are throwing dung
Another day in Vegas
Primm from A-Z
rolling out an ankle
a flying SUV
Quiet tempting spaces
made better by design
multi color pea coat
silence fuels the mind
Stabbing in the subway
goat caught in a well
apes are selling tickets
(but leave behind a smell)
Puberty on trial
a man without a head
teachers feel alone
lets take them to the shed!
Jonah's tomb destroyed
wreckage in Mumbai
Sugar Daddy sites
Freedom 85
The immigrant debate
Russia's mounting toll
unions on a mission
heads are gonna roll
Beaches for the nudists
hotels on the cheap
the best generic brands
a list you have to keep!
Planning your estate
questions from the camp
a mansion up for sale
where once they filmed The Champ
Midwives threaten action
aboriginal act
truckers want concessions
that train has left the track
Sharks are found in Fundy
a prized but perilous catch
food we love to hate the most
an irrefutable batch
A family on the brink
I want my kids to fail!
politicians drains all hope
a ban on Israel
Follow out each headline
let the columns be your guide
all these things did happen
the day that Newhouse died
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC
i smoke a little bud because i am drowning
take a shot of liquor because i am drowning
face it i aint sober because im drowning
everyone needs little relief to save them from drowning
i am drowning
drowning
government eats while the people are bleeding so they're drowning
system is shady wont compensate for the drowning
all alone with nothing to eat because we're drowning
the world is full of hatred so bitter we drown in it
we drowning
drowning
feed the homeless people because they drowning
where's our human rights because Africa is drowning
resuscitate all Africa because she is drowning
you'redrowning
drowning
we don't deserve the sanctions because we are drowning
maintaining your pollution so we drown in it
we can't stop drowning
drowning
we crave stability because we're drowning
still fighting for equality because we're drowning
give me back my identity and prevent me from drowning
diminishing the role of an African Queen to watch her drowning
drowning
drowning
stand up for ubuntu because abantu is drowning
Jun 18, 2021
Jun 18, 2021 at 10:46 PM UTC
a pentagon study
determined that putin
is an anti-social control freak
kind of vermin
(really? this required a genius
kind of keenness? really?)
darpa should stick to cool things
like the internet and invisibility cloaks
and drones armed with pork parts
a rodina rodent in the grain
needs spankin'
with more than just sanctions
cuz knocking out their incisors
doesn't make them any nicer
- a rat with no teeth
is still a rat.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC
_Standing with Marshal Gebbie_
No trumpet sounds.
No banner bleeds.
Just the quiet hum
of satellites watching
what we dare not name.
Power does not sleep,
it drips
from trade routes,
from whispered sanctions,
from the tremble
of a diplomat’s hand
hovering over the red phone.
We are not at war,
but we rehearse it
in algorithms,
in tariffs,
in the way maps
shrink and swell
without consent.
The empire is hungover,
but still it walks,
barefoot through proxy fields,
cloaked in plausible deniability.
And we,
the breathers between borders,
write poems
on the backs of embargoes,
sing lullabies
in contested airspace,
and pray
that silence
is not mistaken
for surrender.
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 6:51 AM UTC
You should do this,
You should do that,
Why these diktats I do not understand.
Are we living our life to comply?
Are not we here to supply.
Why we are to be part of some creed,
When in reality we all are from the same seed.
We are stuck in a whirlpool of sanctions,
And I do not know how to come out of this expansion.
Expectations are defining our life more than existence do,
And the biggest question humanity is asking
what should I do?
We are blaming history for our misconceptions,
Naming presumptions as The inceptions.
How we are going to move ahead,
When we are becoming a body with just a head,
Shedding our humanity for a mere piece of bread.
We are the creation and creators of our world,
All of us is an existence a real thing,
Our creativity is our ability to think.
Then why should we be like someone,
When we could be anyone.
I want to holler out at the world with this answer
Yes, we can
Because we are not endowed with a taste
We have a whole Selection.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 2:43 AM UTC
Swimming through deep water
Heading for the Holt?
Stop and pause to pray or prey?
Opportunistic?
Jean van jean?
In the forest there are no sanctions
Just life and death and hibernation
In the urban forest
The place we call the office
Or the Learning Zone
There is so much more risk
Classes clash; personalities clash;
Priorities clash; authorities clash!
The mob rules
The bullies rule
The demands/needs of the customer; the consumer; the learner
All must be met
Where am I in the urban forest
A tree shrew
A thorny owl
A wild Ottter
Or an Osprey with a mountain view
Soaring high above the issues of the urban forest
Far travelled wild Osprey
I yearn to be yew
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 5:42 AM UTC
Explosions in the sky
That certain rush of words covered with ideas I am not so afraid of
That simple touch of a pen poets picture as their current heaven
And heaven lies within the lies where real people exist and in-concrete dust flies
And flies surround the inner spaces between my heart and yours
Those inter dimensional cracks that keep us alive together
Yet those same cracks cause the
Explosions in the sky
When a million thoughts tremble under shattered glass
And glass becomes rain over a nation
That had no occupation
A station
Where all the emotions find a leak
Where all the leaks lead to leisure
The flood of blood narrated to form a spring out of Arab's fall
And freedom is attained with the sound of
Explosions in the sky
When betrayal becomes the living scenario of a very normal human being
Who believed that his sanctuary is in unison with his sanctions
Strategies structured his not so subtle approach
And after that he fell into her
Explosions in the sky
When a man loses his vision upon a mild smile
When a cry for help becomes an invite for suicide
Come…help me be the
Portrait of clay you'll form with your delicate hands
Shape my image
And imagine a shape for my form
Form a set for me to follow
Follow my moves for if I fall of your track
Track me back to the first point
The playstation of life saves checkpoints
Yet my life is full of glitches…
For when I look at you
I am supposed to be looking at you
But all I'm seeing is
Explosions in the sky
When a trouble-free man becomes the complex notion of a firework
Those little pieces of fiery smoke
Grabs it
And smokes the last buds of life out of his people
The governor governing the covers he created
To alienate the truth
I found in your eyes
And I shall never be mislead
Instead
I shall be steadfast and ready
For you
I shall be ready for you
And your
Explosions in the sky
When a poet has no words left to write
In the right time
Literally the speaker is speechless
He's too busy wondering in total observation
The explosions…
The explosions we create
The skies that unveil
And that little feeling of satisfaction
With the last bits of an ink written
Poem.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
Another year, another Paddies day,
Here in New York, hope for sun to play.
So the Irish celebration, takes winged flight,
Green is the color in everyone's sight.
Parade in the street, down fifth avenue.
The master of ceremony, we don't know who?
But the master this day, stands as St. Pat,
Clad in green, with a leprechaun's hat.
Hear the bagpipes, the drums pounding loud,
This is the Irish day, to stand and be proud!
A Catholic holiday, dietary sanctions they lift,
Eat meat and drink alcohol, is the Popes gift.
What are we celebrating? Let's take a closer look,
Power up the computer or crack open a book.
St. Patrick was born under English rule,
His family was clergy, formally educated in school.
Kidnapped by the Irish, and held as a slave,
To journey back to England he must be brave.
He returned one day to the Irish shore,
About the eternal Trinity, the Irish learned more.
A bishop now, native clove he did use,
To teach the Irish, about celestial clues.
About the father and son and the holy ghost,
The three leaves on a shamrock, they will forever toast!
The three leaves of a shamrock, and it's circular shape,
Are the same as God's Trinity, the logic you can't escape.
This is why the shamrock is so highly revered,
Wear one on your vest, or tucked into your beard.
Enjoy the day, celebrate with family and friend,
Toast to St. Patrick, may his legacy never end!
Visit poemsbypaul.com
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC
A bill becomes a law through a process not unlike wet clay curing in the sun, seasonal labor filling the fields in springtime, a drop of sweat absorbed thirstily into a towel, a stain spreading across a tablecloth.
A bill becomes a law eventually, but often, not in time. A bill often fails on the floor, as do some people, as does, just as often,
the attempt to revive them. The attempt looks an awful lot
like a senator's face, energetic and gray and doomed and
looking for any advantage
when the needed advantage is in the ether
and still immaterial until the tenth of February.
I notice the bumper stickers, and I've deputized a Google Alert
to tell me that the popular mass is wakening.
I can also tell when it yawns,
or prods a rib for a pain that wasn't there yesterday.
I can tell when the popular mass has slept funny.
I can tell when it would rather not wake up at all
but the light is streaming in through the window
and the house is full of the sound of the dishwasher.
Pain on both sides, in both ribs, ignored
because sometimes it just happens - pain,
that is - and is a part of getting older,
like how you can't put peppers in your chili anymore
now that they don't grow on this side of the planet,
and there's nobody left to tend them.
I would like somebody to tend me, too,
but the law that sanctions that workforce
is still in committee, and mired in a dispute
about who deserves love.
This one goes out to all of those lying on their kitchen floor
once everyone is out of the house, lifting their legs and placing them on the countertop, listening to their heart ticking
and trying to discover if it reaches everywhere, if they can hear it
in their ankles.
This one goes out to their savings accounts and their kneecaps.
Here's hoping they make it.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 4:08 PM UTC
At the Saudi Arabian Consulate,
In Istanbul, Turkey, I hear
Something dreadful happened, although
Details are as yet unclear.
Saudi born Jamal Khashoggi,
Journalist for the Washington Post,
Entered the consulate knowing that
It might not be a welcoming host.
An Apple Watch might seem useless.
Khashoggi's Watch, nevertheless,
Recorded his brutal beating and ******
According to the Turkish press.
But was it an Apple Watch, or had
Turkish authorities bugged the room?
Whatever the case, people are certain
That that’s where Khashoggi met his doom.
We know he entered the building whole.
We're waiting to hear more news releases,
For many fear that the journalist,
Exited the building in pieces.
When asked if he'd condemn the Saudis
If they had committed the ghastly deed,
Trump at first appeared reluctant
To criticize them or intercede.
The Saudis pay billions of dollars
For weapons, he said, to the USA.
And what's-his-name wasn't even
An American citizen anyway.
Later, Trump admitted that
We need a thorough investigation.
But sanctions involving money? No,
That would severely hurt our nation.
Meanwhile, the Saudis **** innocent
Yemenis with the weapons they buy,
And rectitude falls by the wayside
As bank accounts multiply.
-by Bob B (10-13-18)
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 11:44 AM UTC
In the Church, I met a woman so old
Bending under the weight of years
I wonder what made her steal my attention
Was it her struggle to hold back her tears?
In spite of her frail stooping figure
She seemed to have an indomitable will
Defeating all infirmities of age, she stood
With a face though sad, yet tranquil and still
Strange enough, she recalled to me
The determined, but decrepit old man beside the pool
Whom Wordsworth had once encountered
Gathering leeches so scarce, but resolute and cool
I watched the woman humbly prostrate
And feebly rise and straighten her aged form
Surrendering herself at the feet of God
Imploring grace for life’s little tasks to perform
In her gnarled hands, she firmly held a prayer book
With the other supporting her frail figure on a staff
And with a sigh of relief, she left the church
As if her afflictions were reduced to half
As the Congregation dispersed in all directions
She feebly walked to her accustomed haunt
At the rear side of the church was a Cemetery unkempt
Where the ancestors slept, devoid of earthly cares and want
Among all the tombstones in marble and granite
Erected in memory of the kindred dead
There was a newly dug up grave
That stood aloof as a heap of mud
I watched the old woman approach this spot
Where she knelt down with a calm demeanor
Her withered hands clasped together in piety
And her eyes closed in silent prayer
With a convulsive motion of her lips
She rose up and once more knelt down
As if searching for a face so dear
Whose memory she could never ever drown
Within that mound, slept her only son
Who died in his prime, a month before
Leaving his widowed mother behind
To brave the shafts stinging, so sore
As Time by seconds and minutes ticked away
The bereaved mother stood up at last
And heavily yet quietly walked away
Leaving the one who was once her own part
*** *** **
While the wounds of the young are quickly closed and healed
And their ductile affections entwine around new passions
The aged withdraw to the silence and desolation of life
Once when deprived of the love that life no more sanctions!
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 7:09 AM UTC
in their disguised self-centered ways, the faithful are obsessed with going to Heaven and staying away from Hell
1
all the faithful,
these holy believers,
they all fear this address:
No.1 HELL, OUTSIDE UNIVERSE,
POSTAL CODE: 0001
all the faithful
want to avoid this place like, well, hell!
*the non-believers just take it easy;
they have no such obsessions*
all the faithful, the holy believers
they all aspire to this place:
ONLY 1, HEAVEN, DIVINE UNIVERSE,
POSTAL CODE: 0001
they all try and get there
and with their narrow True Only One Way
they think they'd get there anyway
easy as if you'd googled for Heaven
*the non-believers just take it easy;
they have no such obsessions*
2
*and well, if the faithful are always imagining what God sanctions
and says, I don't see why their opposites can't also imagine what this Grand Supposition says*
and in their aspirations,
to reach
ONLY 1, HEAVEN, DIVINE UNIVERSE,
POSTAL CODE: 0001
the faithful
***** the planet earth
with all their doctrines
and their aggression
and their violence
and their narrowness and bigotry
and their holiness and their obsessions
and creating constant divisions
and so I can sympathize
with their supposed God becoming sane
and thus declaring to the faithful:
*Oh no, I'm not letting you ******** in
as surely you'll make a Hell of Heaven;
I'd rather let in the non-believers here anytime
at least they don't have your hang-ups and perversions*
conclusion
well, the poor faithful then, the holy faithful wholly excluded, they'll have to content themselves with Googling for Heaven, and viewing the streets of Heaven on Google Maps of the Divine World
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 6:08 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Don’t say, “Allahu Akbar!”
Because the facts are
That while God is Great
He’s not a God of hate
And if you can’t relate
You have a second rate
Ideology can’t you see
It’s clearly blaspheme
Don’t say, “Allahu Akbar!”
While you blow up a car
To maim and ****
As if it’s God’s will
You won’t reach paradise
Because it isn’t nice
To harm humanity
Read Qu’ran like me
Don’t say, “Allahu Akbar!”
Who you think you are
God doesn’t sanctions you
To do the things you do
You think it’s heaven sent
To **** the innocent
And do it in a Name
That you clearly defame
Don’t say, “Allahu Akbar!”
When you know you are
Just an insane jihadi
Down with al Baghdadi
Who’s merely a snake
So give me a break
Because he’s a viper
Worthy of a ******
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 4:47 AM UTC
Sojourn at the hinterlands of a fog casket
awoken to be suffocated
put to sleep to dream
within a dream the nightmare of a mother's fear
depression is so easy to slink in
so wary of all those palpable sins
like being yourself -
awoken to be suffocated
put to sleep to dream
with a dream the nightmare of a mother's fear
where pink haired ladies
talk about my dissonance
within a dream about the nightmare of my mothers
self punishment -
for birthing me
questioning if it was the right decision
if I was born to suffer
this fate
so i wake in the land of dead people
who's limbs fall apart
as they're names are called out by the concierge
to my voice as whisper
to my courage bubbling underneath
a mother fearful of coming close
forgiveness is a blessing
and the tears flow
out of the eyes of a child onto the cheeks of a woman
who's life was molested by other peoples sanctions
a woman who stood tall for the voice of others children and elders
who encouraged chance meetings to be themselves via magazine clippings
and a mother afraid to come close
and a child still living the actions of a ghost looming at her with wide eyed slanders of " you ****** up , you piece of ****
you **** up at everything"
it's difficult to look it's like watching someone be strung up
naked
tied to posts
and the spaces between their fingers sliced
their yoni sliced
their ******* sliced
their heart beating wide eyed screaming
silenced.
My mother
who birthed me
whom i respect
for all of her showings
no matter how ****** up
strung up
and the vision is blinding.
and we're both crying
but i don't tell her
because it's lunch time
and she's ****** up again.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
The city's shrouded in smoke today
smoke coats my mouth, throat & eyes
& I know, I know.
I should be writing in form,
in rhyme - villanelles, sonnets, terza rima
some say there's too much free verse, some say, it's like
everyone's jumped on the bandwagon
yet the most of the magazines still all want rhyme
but sometimes this is just the tune
your heart sings, a broken smile
& the way the images build up
waiting to sail like ships in the harbor
& besides, should we really be writing in villanelles when we are the Mad & I see now, the best minds of our generation, the gifted,
the naked wastrels of the coming apocalypse,
talking to lamp posts, screaming of Ginsberg's Moloch
& the wrongs they did us, yet not destroyed even as we scream locked
behind whitewashed walls in razor-blade glint & halogenic
glow of ECT or walk the empty streets at guerilla dawn
& dusk, bearing the ample weight of our drugged-up minds
like those martyrs of the old Soviet Union & clinging
on to memoirs of our stolen, interrupted, spiritual awakening,
searching for the redemption of litter in this hobo life,
changing countries like some change bed sheets,
others rooted by the invisible chains of familiarity & home, still calling
for the road, oh Kerouac, the fallen angels of tomorrow strung out on sweet
childhood memories & jazz in starved sunsets,
picking themselves up to pick at their scab wounds,
spitting at corrupt governments, bitter with alcohol,
writing poems of unrequited love to poets
far better than us, while Elvis croons
in the background & a Baboushka spits sunflower seeds
in the Russian town of my ancestors
& an open air film plays in black & white
& this colorless summer is nearly over
& they still haven't lifted their sanctions
them with their stone gods of war & psychiatry,
always lining up the next undesirables :
you could be next, yes you with the rainbow eyes
you the believer, you the dreamer of visions
Oh pity them, the children of smoke,
blind to the vagabond, the poet, the lover
lost children always seeking out the same roads
the city is shrouded in smoke
& I wonder if it's not always been there
& if we're living amongst blind men
ones that never read poems
or else how could all this happen
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
She abides in her circular chamber,
prophet to the oracular God.
Perched delicately a top a three-legged mount,
engulfed in a haze,
an hallucinogenic cloak.
A mystic figure,
clutching branches of laurel in her Delphian hands,
a bronze bowl of water cradled consciously in her lap.
Her hair as dark as the fates she acquaints.
A cape of red flows like the blood
of those who perished from her
manic counsels.
Aberration is evident in her dazed eyes.
At times her body thrashes
with apparent anger and confusion.
Her limbs then go limp.
A painted smile bleeding across her face,
delirium manifested.
A warning set in stone:
“Know thy self.”
Pay no attention to the opinion of the masses:
advice to be heeded.
The hollow-horned shivers
from head to hoof.
Sacrificed for knowledge of the future
yet unknown.
Her hysterical beauty sanctions
the nonsensical prophecies.
“My wife is with child,
if I contend with the enemy,
will I return to my family?”
She stares into the water,
her face distorted,
for the reflection she sees is not her own.
"You will go,
you will return,
not in the battle you will perish."
Her red cape became
more prominent in colour.
Her ambiguity brought a child
into the world
without a father.
"You will go,
you will return not,
in the battle you will perish."
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 12:14 AM UTC
Night shifts into jet black
city escapes
if it's not insanity,
we don't have an answer at stake.
this product of you and me
was never an accident.
love at its peak
signaling and S.O.S.
you've bought me in a surface.
we don't now yet.
analog fluctuations I wanted
you and I cant forget.
Sanctions we break,
with metal palms we punch.
limitations act as walls
our thirst keeps me quenched.
My passion, your fire.
will get us above the wires
ambiguous insights to the past.
Passion and fire, you ignite.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
The defendant approaches the bench
And gently removes the dust from the bible.
The courtroom looks in confusion.
“I’m not putting my hand on that filthy thing,” the defendant says.
“I’d be lying if I were to declare that a book that was written by someone who never knew me is something I can put my faith in.”
The jury, judge, plaintiff, and television viewers were astonished.
The defendant was asked simply to defend the case
And was already not looking very innocent.
But who are these strangers to judge anyway?
The defendant was brought to the court because of refusal to comply with
Orientation Sanctions.
Insert snicker here
Orientation is a path.
Whether you believe it’s God-given,
Hell-driven,
Or some spiritual la-di-da pinning people’s noses upward in the air,
Orientation is an unavoidable path.
Finding it may take some time for one,
And it may have lit someone’s way like a clear day from birth for another.
But no one can deny that each human being’s compass
Has a magnetic pull North.
Some are just not looking for Santa Claus.
Some are still looking for how to get Atlantis to resurface
Because everyone knows
That the depths of the sea
Are not always the best places for
Deep Dark Secrets.
“Someone’s not getting very many presents this Christmas!”
Court Transcriber types: Defendant rolls eyes.
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
You are,
Beyond the boundaries,
Of beauty.
You have,
Surpassed the sanctions,
Of sexiness.
You are,
Past the present idea,
Of perfection.
There is only one thing,
That you may not always be,
And that thing is being belonged by me.
So stay with me,
For I love you and you love me,
I want you to be apart of my,
Family.
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 9:05 PM UTC
Black tidal waves encompassed by the wall of lipstick,
releasing steam becoming inhaled from the mouth that sleeps.
Black curvatures sped along the ghostly lines to ease the tick,
relapsing legs touching to the web that weeps.
No winged-beast, no unpredictable mind,
to lullaby the creator of both the invisible and the translucent.
Slowly suffocated to the echo of the riled up rhyme,
slowly spitting out the guts of red paint.
Freedom flown, fists formed,
molding white pieces into scattered clouds.
Head hung, heart hummed,
wailing teary notes into ripped wedding gowns.
Cycle of the eaten, and the uneaten,
all must gallantly fall; however births ripples.
Sanctions of the needed, and the unneeded,
all must dauntingly call; however pictures simple.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 3:19 AM UTC
As far as wars go
It's a bit of a bore,
But we are at war.
Trade war tariffs:
Monetary missiles,
Cyber attackers:
Heat-seeking hackers.
Yes, hot wars are so passé.
Cold wars,
So-called Star Wars:
All in the past.
Silent battlers
Not sabre rattlers.
Keyboard warriors
No F15s nor Harriers.
Masters of Sanctions
Not Masters of War.
Expelling diplomats
And tit-for-tats.
It's a new World War,
But it's a bore,
So pay attention,
Don't get complacent,
The war drones on.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 6:43 PM UTC
We want and need the acceptance,
We are the LGBTQ+ or Black Community,
We want and need the acceptance,
We always put up a resistance,
We lack the power to communication,
and to educate, to debate,
We are the communities,
that feed the war machines,
open the sacrifice that has just begun,
we aim for your daughters and first born sons,
that has mistakes or use a gun,
We are your catastrophe,
We love all the hate, all the lies and the heresy,
We love how divine that every time we hide in denial,
Becoming suicidal kings,
We want and Need the acceptance,
We are the LGBTQ+ or Black Community,
We want and need the acceptance,
Remembrance and repentance,
We hate the bible freaks,
Homophobic Religious geeks,
We hate the bible freaks,
We are not ********** creeps,
We hate the bible Freaks,
Homosexuality is a Sin,
Screaming back at them with an evil grin,
while the family next door could have been,
Homicide or suicidal, inform the next of kin.
We are religious, We believe,
We are the LGBTQ+ Community and we don't believe,
We are the Black Community and we are here still in disagree,
Obsolete, decease and retreat,
We are Religious, We seek love and peace,
We are the LGBTQ+ Community, we seek acceptance and your release,
We are the Black Community, We seek Acceptance but we still justice against the peace,
We are Religion, the LGBTQ+ and Black Community, searching for love and peace,
Coming to blows, hatred and deceased, with no love and peace in sight,
We are the offended, snowflake generation, We are the,
Hatred growing, Breeding,
As our armies mounts, keep increasing,
Dead and bleeding, no concealing,
The hunger is real, yet no ones seeing,
You can promise, but the dreams are all dead,
as the rivers still blood red,
No more lessons to learned,
We can't educate so don't try and reach us,
We want to foster the future,
Not nurture the land,
We want the stitches and sutures,
and visions at our own hand,
We want the Mass sanctions,
and the execution of this land,
It's our time to scream, let stand for something,
But refuse to walk hand in hand.
Nov 4, 2020
Nov 4, 2020 at 2:45 PM UTC
This ceremonial façade is likened to an ancient folklore which has been dipped in forbidden secretions, even though my arts are sincerely darkened to unfathomable depths of surprised and ambidextrous naiveté.
I have constructed the choreography of this metaphysical dance, which lingers on the brink of sociological pronunciations, and where the liberty of gargoyles spew their fluid projections from lofty heights across the four directions of our moralistic city walls, where magnetised needles ***** my soul with the earth-shattering clarification of true north.
I love to sit in the dark and to be enlightened, as the eerie silence bellows her validity across trans-national sanctions, where the fallacy of liberation is juxtaposed with a socio-political and fetishistic confinement.
I believe that classical infidelity is like a beautiful Gothic cathedral where silent rage has an ebb and flow which is not easily ascertained amongst our sub-cultural and contemporary cohorts, where dynamic equilibrium truly encapsulates the co-existence of opposites, which are said to attract.
So, as we gather in the menacing serenity of the dark forests, where geography marks her ancient alignments from sunrise to sunset; can we now pray and give homage to the spirits of history, in this underground finesse of paradoxical equilibrium?
I love democracy, as she gyrates her sensual community wantonness on this conveyer belt, where the vital functions of our organism slink into sleepy cessations of universal structures where causality releases her excitatory expressions of organic physiology.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 3:05 AM UTC
Sometimes the sins laugh
frolic chuckle and gasp,
whenever wrath sits there
calm and tranquil, unending care.
when Pride takes precious time,
to look up and face humility,
to remove the thin veil,
to observe another person and care.
when slender lust embraces
for another, soothing the soul
creating safe sanctions - free of sale.
when g r e e d gives to charity,
providing,
safe havens,
when sloth feels the urge
to work, forging iron bars
and even making emotions and life time scars
when gluttony shares his
fries, and full course meal
when envy faces the sins - and says
‘it’s okay that lust is more curvy, I know I’m happy’
This is all a façade of course. envy said it with morose.
gluttony? He had another meal, and another meal right after that.
Mirrors reveal the real corpse. sloth daydreamed the dream.
greed? what else but the space he took?
How can we be something else. lust has lackluster snide, snark and ***
Pride? He has a deeper veil - one that escapes his avail.
Sometimes the sins want to be sinful.
And sometimes wrath wants to be wrathful.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
I’m exhausted
Drained by superficialities
That mark a women’s worth.
Pondering questions asked
By those who fear to answer
Because they know the truth.
Ridiculed by baring gifts from God,
A slanted nose or fumbled hands.
Exhaustion are those who embrace;
Embrace scared sanctions from
Others who demonize their faults;
Faults-a rare gift from Mother Nature herself.
That is our testimonial kiss
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 1:13 PM UTC