I don't know how to write about God by Lionnfart, literature
Literature
I don't know how to write about God
I spent twenty minutes
arranging the wine, bread, and tablecloth,
and another hour in the garden
picking flowers, all for Jesus.
I felt the room breathing with its
own life before I ever even sat
down on the couch.
Last year I spilled the wine,
this time the bread falls off the plate,
cracking on the floor, Christ's broken body -
I'm so imperfect, small, a wailing babe.
I want to promise I'll be good
for the rest of my life, but that is impractical.
You and I know better.
You know there's too much
settled dust on this body,
just as there was
on the fine porcelain dishes
mother pulled from the china cabinet.
My footprints are muddy,
Hello, soldier! I'm your weapon.
We're here to work together.
Crazy fanatic - stained with blood.
He want to kill you in the name of God!
Our rulers' agreements, they're losing profits.
We must do it for their benefits,
We're actors of great spectacle.
Peter Arnett reports from Baghdad.
Hey, soldier! Don't forget me if you ever come home!
Now, get ready for big deeds.
Mothers, Borned to war - it's your kids!
Always remember - God's with us!
Always give him your trust!
He's gonna help you.
In the name of God - fight!
In the name of God - die!
It's not a war for freedom, it's a war of interests!
It's not a war for being free, it's a war
FFM Retroactive 20 - Dishonourable Thieves by Sakkeru, literature
Literature
FFM Retroactive 20 - Dishonourable Thieves
Everyone tells the rich little ladies to stay in after dark, or they’ll get mugged. No one tells me though, and I’d ignore them anyhow. Muggers have the best stuff to nick.
I knew one was following me long before his hand landed on my shoulder. He squelched as he walked – sure sign of a sewer rat, that. I nodded his way, stretched my face into a grin. He didn’t say owt. Sure sign of a thieving sewer rat, that.
“Yer money, y’little beggar,” he grunted, the smell of booze on his breath halfway welcome when the rest of him stank of shit and rancid sweat.
“Aw, too bad mate, I’m clean,”
A new year started. So some words of inspiration for those that want to pursue art this year...
:bulletblack: Don't worry about your age. Do not get discouraged by those that are younger than you and better. Some people start art when they are 6 years old and are prodigy's at age 16, others make a rather late or slow start. It doesn't matter if you're 10 or 80 years old. You're never too old to learn something new, and you're never too old to do something you enjoy.
:bulletblack: Everybody has potential. Even the greatest masters in art started out as beginners. It just takes a lot of time and persistence.
:bulletblack: Don't be afraid to
Some broken people can hurt you without thought
But believe me when I say it’s not their fault
With an open wound as delicious as yours
It would be a shame not to rub in the salt
So why do you insist on shaking that girl
Do you like playing the martyr on your knees?
Acting like you’re a paragon of purity
Well today that purity feels ripe for disease
Some broken people cry not knowing what for
Have sympathy as they weren’t born with black hearts
Like you and I they have grey matter in their brain
But their thoughts are a great distance from dark
So why do you insist on hitting that girl
When she stopped feeling many blue m
Do you realize it?
Our lives will end someday
Nothing can be done
To change that fact
Ghosts we will become
Invisible we'll be
Void is our fate
Emptiness is all we'll feel
Unlike you might think, however
Push the wall hard enough and you'll find happiness before that
another cut
from another 'fakedfall'
another bruise
supposedly from a 'misaimedbaseball'
another scar
from all the lies gone 'tofar'
and another poem
because no place ever feels like home.