Poetry Weaponized

You say I spoke of hunger


as punishment for sloth—


but I fed the crowds who followed


with no résumé, no cloth,

You twist my words like wire,


make a whip from holy thread.


But I wrote love into the margins


and raised the shame from dread.


I did not teach accounting


nor demand a ledger’s proof.


I taught the kind of justice


that walks with grace and truth.


When you weaponize my teachings


to shame the ones in need,


you do not preach the gospel—


you plant a bitter seed.


My words were stitched for mending—


not for binding wrists in shame.


They were meant to lift the fallen,


not to brand the poor with blame.


The scroll was never written—-


to crown the strong with pride.


It was inked in blood and mercy


for the ones cast aside.


So when you preach oppression


in the name of holy writ,


you do not speak my gospel—


you’ve emptied it of Spirit.