"Will People Still Believe?"

"Will People Still Believe?"

A Poem by PoeT4994
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Random write.

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Swastikas burn in the palms of his hands so that we can't grasp the Holocaust concept.
Derogatory n*****s are carved into his tongue so that we never even have to speak of racism.
He is the man that carries the weight of the world on his shoulders just so we don't have to deal with our sins.
Carbon foot prints lay in his tracks, and there are ozone's ripping apart in his eyes.
Suicides and O.D.'s rest in the cracks of his lips, so when he kisses his wife her tongue bleeds.
His finger tips are ripping at the seams...and the lines of his palms are slowly crawling back towards his elbows.
Pentagrams burn in his heart, and broken levies concrete his ribs.
Cross's splinter underneath his feet, and Helter Skelter seems like Heaven compared to the phantoms that haunt his dreams.
Arch-angels paradox his nightmares.
He is the man we know as God.
Jesus.
Zues.
Allah.
Krishna.
Bhagwan.
God.
He is the man with sunsets chained to his eye lashes.
When he blinks, dark days come.
He's still staring.
Every once in a while a lash falls, but he picks it right back up and makes a wish.
A wish that more pain will leave us for him.
He's holding unpinned grenades in his hands, so he fixes the world with bloody knuckles.
His knees are weary...from years of walking.
Earthquakes shake his knees...they've been shuttering every since light first peeked.
There is a tattoo of his own personal Dorrian Grey on his back.
And it's burning.
Burning like the fires under his fingernails.
Hands blaze...drop grenades...drop bombs.
Stop songs, and listen.
As banners wave like sirens, he falls.
This world, doesn't know what they have until it's gone.
He's been trying to walk away for a while.
Been trying to cry those sunsets out.
He's taken those swasticas and carved that picture off of his back.
One man, one being, one entity can't do it all on his own.
Sure, he has the power...but when we cover our feet in salt and dance in the wounds of his skin...why should he even try.
We...need to help bandage this broken man.
Need to help the light keep shining.
You can raise a strong fist and yell "I want to meet my taker."
But can you even look to the ground and whisper "I want to meet my maker."?
All we do is tattoo ourselves to his face.
And now when he looks in the mirror, it breaks.
It cracks.
Shoulder blades shift like disappointment.
He is ours, but we are not even trying to be his.
From nominals, to down right doggers...he's done nothing but everything for you.
He hasn't given you the world, because he knows you can't handle it.
So he rests it from his earlobe.
Waiting till the day we speak to him, and mean it.
And the lock will fall from his canal into our palms, and we can hold onto our luggage instead of him.
But for now, he'll slowly die and smile about it.
If you make God bleed, will people still believe?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
But God's been soaked in blood for decades.
And we just stand by and act like it's not enough.
People, when will you see that the whole reason you are here, is because of him.
Without holding back the dogs, we would of been eaten a long time ago.
So when you go home tonight, ask yourself, what would it feel like if Atlas stood up straight and put his chest out to finally show some pride.
What would our world be like falling to desert cremated cities.
What would Heaven be like, if God suddenly gave up like you have.
If you can make God bleed, will the people still believe?
I hope so.

© 2010 PoeT4994


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Added on August 1, 2010
Last Updated on August 3, 2010
Tags: Will, people, still, believe, ?, poem, poet, poetry, spoken, word.