They Hate These Lines Poem by Godspower Oshodin

Religion is politics,
Slated on a dark siege of crazy denomination.
The world is a holy ground ravel around man's wicked thoughts.
The world's dominant place, labeled around delirious acts
Bounded souls travels off conscience bound,
Sailors conscious pound, tickles nameless norms.
Or corrupt sentry on court-less retinues.
Wasted thoughts plays warrior in the darkest cinema halls,
Of Wealthy minds on castle of holy poor.
Motherless patience, seated on unholy chairs.
Thunderous powers darkens the darkly night,
Faithless evils willing to punish too quick.
On pirate waters, sinking the conscience of evil jailers,
Mimickers mimic my spoken words,
Hitting nerves of veil crawlers.
Savaged street of empty miners,
Precious stones, the hardest in bloody grounds.
‘Purple hibiscus’, a tale to welcome western black slaves,
She stole your minds, with grueling talents.
Maybe I may gain the thought of manly wit,
Or the chorus at akwa-ibom transformation.
Bitches came, and they said we poetically lament,
who wrote this poem? It may be my toothlessly comment.
Remind me about the tones of that indistinct 'CHANGE',
That managed flair, and disdained range.
And in the warriors town, the greatpoet delight,
In his heart, he fears the doubt of rumbling soldiers.
Of talented artists painting the fiercest portrait,
I'm Godspower Oshodin,
and I respect the thump that punches to achieve this poem.
I see the political eyes of integrity stand,
That drove around my priceless brand.
Compromising the shoulders of weak eagles,
That sees through the red sea in rebels Government.
The great alcoholic guardian, preaching of holy message,
On unholy podium glittering like ennui marble.
I'll order the chief to dis-cabinet the echoed songs,
The actors are stupid in rickety standard.
My poem is digital, it preaches precision,
The bedbugs are angry in bloody forms.
The only syringe that disrupt the vain,
Is juicier lineage that prays polygamous Hastings.
Trees of hierarchy falsify bigots,
They betrayed arrows that shot the brave hearts.
The disrespected fowl still picks from the impoverish mats,
In Rodents corners, the lizards now finds solace.
The writers pen is really fatigue,
But it'll stop writing before the elephant's shoulder backs the banana leafs.
Maybe Benjamin might be a poet though,
As he desires pen, in plagiarize form.
I really don't know the influence of royal edge
It’s a gate-less heavens in earth's angelic prostitute,
The heart still place the clueless puzzle.
It might be sculpture of massive anger.
I still can't tell the road of scavengers pathway,
Its betting spirit of Betnaija days.
Its iota papers of millionaire's mind cast,
And thunderous weed of bereave man's inspiration.
Inspiration bound around the Witness sound, O Jehovah,
A writers biography sampled in a waterless Utah.
Another pound of flesh eaten in nano-seconds,
Eaten in political courtyard before nostrils blockage.
Ginger and monkey-tail, highness plenty
of nightingales sound in pigin english cemetery.
They killed the loudest mammoth
And bedeviled your thought,
The time is shorter, the Atlantic is full,
The political bible read in holy grounds.
The Jesus Dancer that resembles Michael Jackson,
Its a poet's thought in a fearless night.
Restless shadows in bodily mortal,
Revealed the tunnel of ravenous flats.
I force the attack against a Greece Zeus warrior,
in written nuggets against freedom fighters.
Corrupt languages speaking articulated chorus,
Wicked brothers fighting the pioneers fight.
I do write thus, of anonymous poems,
Of emotional intestine in surgeon's lab ripped.
I may not write the tenth book,
Maybe in hundredth years twisted.
Of century and old mushrooms renegades,
Of placate of focused outwitted facades.
Moments revived the lion's fluency,
The cramp road, and they believed the rootless religion.
And the hunters last days brings the fattest meats.
The economy spell-bound in oil watered farms.
The dark poet is tired in American Visa ask,
The diplomat accepted the art-wise calling,
And respect the bothered testimony,
That relegates your subconscious into a lil wayne's lyrics.
I embellish the Nas' spoken-words,
That resembles my graceful old-age.