Your God Is Not Mine
Don’t call it holy
when your hands reek of blood
and your invocations sound like bombs.
Don’t dare kneel
in the ashes you’ve made
and whisper sacred.
You slaughter children
then quote scripture.
You desecrate bodies
then scream martyr.
You build your god
out of bullets and rage,
and wonder why the earth
spits you out.
You think heaven smiles
when you burn the living?
When you trade breath for obedience,
when you crown yourself righteous
with the severed heads of dissenters?
You’ve turned faith
into a weapon,
a mask for cowardice,
a smokescreen for power.
Your sermons are landmines.
Your beliefs
coffins wrapped in flags.
You don’t worship.
You conquer.
And still
you ask why the world hates.
You ask why the skies stay silent.
But even your god
has turned his back,
ashamed
of what you do
in his name.
U