Gabriel walks the streets,
an Angel of the Lord dressed in the skin of man,
but police are too afraid of his black skin,
or when he appears as a Native American,
speaking loudly at Standing Rock,
holding up a sign at a Black Matters Protest.
Gabriel attends the protests and the meetings,
a man of god with the fiery strength of his,
trying to make a difference in this suffering world,
knowing that all man are created equal
and yet they beg to differ arguing over each other.
Gabriel is a woman protesting for feminism,
here, there, everywhere that Gabriel can speak,
but no one listens to this Angel of God,
shouting at Gabriel, “Not all Men”
and Gabriel screams back, “You have missed the point!”
Gabriel is a Buddhist nun who strives for peace,
wanting to bring humanity compassion and hope,
speaking regularly to the cameras like the Dalai Lama.
All Gabriel wants to do is bring humanity back to the fold,
to knowing that it is one with the cosmos,
but Gabriel’s message is drowned out in the bitter hate
and the anger and the skewing of media,
and humans lie and lie to each other,
breaking each other’s heart as they ignore
the suffering of enviornment, animal, and fellow man.
Gabriel appears as Prophet among the men,
but no one listens, they just turn their ears away
saying, God doesn’t exist and why should they love their enemy
who has tried to oppress them and
didn’t God do the same kind of shit that isn’t progressive?
Just look at the Bible they say
and they spew forth hate for each other,
never wanting to listen or feel.
—  Modern Gabriel
poetry request for anon
ciel knight

rejected modern prophets

kids who’ve taken a vow of silence, eyes bloodshot and throat straining with the weight of prophecy, shunned even by the burdened. charcoal-dirtied fingers and sheets and sheets of doom, destruction, deliverance. their blood collecting under the unbroken skin of their cheeks, results of fist fights with unbelievers, attempts at accommodating omens on their skin like divine Rorschach inkblots for those who look long enough. 

kids with hand-ravaged hair and ancient tear stains wrapping their arms around themselves, whispering, whispering, whispering. hodu l'Adonai. their hymns on the wall aren’t vandalism, not blasphemy though written in blood, they’d like to tell you. but unlike the prophets of long ago, their gratitude has failed them, and so they remain silent. 

1. the psalms are long and our voices soft, yet when i crack the windows open at the long dark sky all i can hear is the world, and it is singing. it is praying. the LORD is listening and we are singing unto HIM and isn’t creation beautiful?

2. i am so very tired of Romans.

3. you’re right. it is lovely. the night is stars are pure and the air is clean and i found GABRIEL in my back garden weeding the gold from the silver and he sang ISAIAH to me until my soul returned. i invited him in for a drink but he could not stay. we cried together. i don’t know why. he was so quiet when he LEFT.

4. are you HERE yet?

5. GABRIEL returned today and he was FUCKING coked out. his eyes were eyes and his mouth was a mouth and he opened up his yawning ribs for me and cried “COME. COME ALL YOU WHO ARE THIRSTY. COME TO THE WATERS.”

6. i want to rewrite the world, MICHAEL. i want to cross out HIS name in the books, i want to tamp down the salt and the ash, i want to start fires until all swords are truly flaming and no eyes are truly burnt. we were promised milk and honey, but the lands are flowing with RED and FORGETTING and my mouth is dry of love.

7. we are never alone when we walk with GOD.

8. then why make us lonely?

—  – [ texts between the modern prophets ] a.g.

emiliaclark-deactivated20150217  asked:

Maddieee so i am absolutely in love with the whole modern gods series, and i was wondering if you have any poem recs? Thanks love!

Yes! I definitely do, oh gosh! All poetry about modern deities are here; all poetry about modern biblical characters / angels / prophets are here; all edits are about modern deities are here; and these are some of the poems I love. 

Greek Modern Gods: 

Biblical Modern Angels / Prophets 

[[1:40 am]]
We are drug store prophets,
cut from steel and broken glass.
They said our scars would be our salvation.
I don’t believe them. My salvation is
a melted down handful of
Brand X aspirin, a cup of holy water,
21 pills in liquid form.
It runs hot like the neon prophecies
burnt into our souls.
[[2:04 am]]
I just want to escape the endless choir
of back alley hymns, of concrete prayers.
I can’t do this anymore.
Can’t stand the chalk stained sheets
and charcoal dipped fingers.
I can hear them in my head telling me
to tear open my ribs and throw
out my heart, to leave
the floorboards wine-dark and red.
[[2:40 am]]
i am sorry
—  i touched the divine and it buried me or ezekiel sends late night texts (c.w)

character aesthetic  — the modern prophet

kids with tangled hair and dark circles under their eyes, breathing in chaos and exhaling despair, with knowledge to bring empires to their knees and kings to their doom. they suffer from late-night migraines on deserted street corners, illuminated only by neon signs and flickering streetlights, decrypting divine omens with hollow eyes. they share beds with empty bodies, tangling veiny fingers in ripped sheets before disappearing into the night. they are loved by something far greater than human. they will conquer all.

I will hurt you, he says. His arms are hanging heavy at his side. I will destroy you, he says. His fingers brush your cheek. I will burn you, he says. The match he holds is broken. I will, I will, he says. His sweet breath at your neck. Please do, you say. His hands dig a hole into you, and he buries himself deep in your lungs, honeyed and addictive like your dying breath.
—  1am; you thought you couldn’t make any more bad choices (l.d)
half gods accept wine and water but true gods need blood

They would teach you how to love God, but never to survive Him. And as Jesus stood upon the hill with his arms wide open, consuming and devouring the universe beyond, brother brother, you shout out of the window and into the mottled street below: your words are gone and forgotten and lost, a Testament of Mary. A man continues walking, shoes new and squeaky on the pavement, his dog wags a shaky tail, the lamp post flickers with divine ignorance. People are kissing in the moonlight below, lost in their religions, and you want to scream at them, to shout, to save, but your mouth overflows, dripping with hymns.

What then,
if you heard the Word of God,
what then?
Would you preach on the
street corners of proud New York,
between the stalls of the
farmers market?
Would you rage upon the internet,
saying, “Hark! This is the Word of God!”
Or would you quietly consign
yourself to drugs and institutions?
Would you drown His Words out,
blasting metal to electronic,
to sirens and city lights,
the sounds of the New Age,
the Modern World?
What then would you do,
Modern Prophet,
would you speak or be silent?
—  What Then Modern Prophet? - ck
the best weapon

in a perfect life, I wake, feeling
Your smile on my skin.

in a perfect life, You paint
the sunrise with my blood, and I
have no pain.

in a perfect life, everything
would go as it should, doubt-
less and strong. I would stare out at the
night’s heart and see You, see
and know all things with a
surety like smoke rising from a blown-
out candle — inevitable, lovely.

no life is perfect. with faith thrown
in, destiny tends to say hello
sweetly, then fuck your shit up. who
feels abandonment more than those
who believe deeply? who knows the
word empty like those touched by
the divine? a definition of

complete belief, trust, confidence —

what a strange thing, to be so
small, constantly reaching out for
something to put all hope
in. the best weapon is

anticipation of impending danger, pain,

once more -
fear is that thing that keeps
you alive. without it, there is no
need to run, search, find higher
ground. if we were not afraid of this
awesome and mighty living, would we
ever turn to the celestial and soften
our hearts? the best

weapon is fear. turn it so it rests
in your hands. feel the heartbeat of
it and let it guide you. find your
higher ground. face the stars. the
black, the dark. this
thing you believe in so deeply. even

when the alone and empty set
in, keep fear in your hands and love
in your heart. it won’t last.

doubt never does.

This was written on a prompt for @prophetsystem

If you would like something written just for you, just ask. I am always taking prompts.

If you liked this, please consider slipping something into my tip jar. 

Father, Father
you can not
wish holiness
onto me

Father, Father
i am not clay
you can not
mold me a

Father, Father,
do not curse
me your martyr

Father, Father
your nails are
dust on my
hands and feet

Father, Father
i do not pray
at the altar

Father, Father
i am the altar

Father, Father,
look at me

Father, Father
i am alive

Father, Father
as you are

—  Father, Father
watch me bleed

I named my angel Gabriel
because he delivers me messages from the most high,
and God is telling him that the rapture is coming
and my savior is a rush of holy headlights into mine.

I named my angel Gabriel
because he tells me
to devour
the divine,
and in turn
I’ll be devoured in a symphony of crushing
on a sacred Sunday night.

I named my angel Gabriel
because he has wings with blinking eyes,
and he won’t let me sleep
in the room that isn’t mine.

I named my angel Gabriel
because he spoke to a Mary before me,
though much less tainted than
he prophesied her powerful
but confessed to me that
the moment
of my greatness would
in the sound of tires on
bloody asphalt.

I named my angel Gabriel
because my God
didn’t answer,
so I gave this stentorian
within me a place next to my
so I’d go to heaven
even after flying through the
god damned windshield.