Simpleton
Simpleton
11 hours ago

Mouth closed
Legs open
Eyes shut
Body naked

Below beneath
On your knees
Don't refuse
Or accuse

Misuse
Abuse
Lose
Discard

Voice less
Butchered wings
Shaky legs
Patterned skin

Unjust
Unfair
Undue
Distress

Always under
Always less

How can I oppose all the policies of President Donald Trump
When I no longer have an faith in Western Civilization?
If I believed that the Western notions of "Progress" were beneficial,
I would also have to believe that Rape is preferable
To Consensual Sex.

She hates the blankets of the night,
Hovering over the yellow of the sun
Into a boiling skin, sweating,
Soaking in a night gown,
Drowning in a pool of flooding terrors,
Flashing slates of memories

A dark alley, a subway,
Trailed by a hooded phantom
laying on her back, flimsy,
Chocking on her fading screams
In fright of the red mask,
The weight of his seed

#sad   #lonely   #rape  

Alone in bed she looks around
Afraid of what's to come
The shadows dance along her wall
She hears her daddy hum

Tears fill her eyes she starts to cry
Up out of bed she runs
And locks the door; the knob then turns
And Daddy whispers one

"Don't make me wake your mother up
To tell her you've been bad
Come give Daddy a kiss goodnight-
You're making me very mad"

She turns the key and steps away
And Daddy walks inside
Slowly shutting down again
She crawls inside to hide

Alone inside her little world
She cannot feel the pain
Innocence lost long ago
Left in a bloody stain

Images fly through her mind
First her then Kristy too
Baby Carrie's next in line
Before the night is through

Anger builds around her heart
"Please stop!" she tries to yell
But Daddy's hand is on her neck
He knows she'll never tell

She struggles underneath his wieght
As he removes her shoe
She tries to hit but misses
And Daddy whispers two

His grip on her is tightened
And his fist comes crashing down
She tries to fight unconsiousness
As Daddy rips her gown

He rolls her on her belly
Pulls her close so he won't miss
Then he enters hard and quickly
As he gives her "Daddy's kiss"

The minutes seem like hours
As she opens up her eyes
And she hears the desperation
In her little sister's cries

Daddy thrusts in one more time
Then rolls onto his back
And she just lies there motionless
And awaits his next attack

She looks into her sisters eyes
And reaches out a hand
And little Carrie reaches back
And slowly starts to stand

But Daddy isn't finished yet
And Carrie's pushed aside
He holds her down and spreads her legs
And takes another ride

She falls asleep all bruised and naked
Bloody and surrounded
By the sisters she had reached for
While her innocence was pounded

14 years of rape and lies
She fall into depression
And suicide is what's to come
Of a childs molestation

3 days later a little body
Washes up on shore
A suicide; her wrists are slit
But the sherrif sees much more

The headlines scream the story
Of a young girls devastation
And the silent screams that go unheard
All throughout the nation

But Kelly's story isn't through
Her secrets now unfold
For she tells them with the bruises
On her body now so cold

Now the lights flash through the windows
And there's people all around
Asking all these questions
But we don't make a sound

Kristy hasn't spoken since they
Told her Kelly died
And I am little Carrie
In a corner I now hide

Handcuffs bind his hands and wrists
The evidence they found
Her body told of the abuse
When Daddy was around

"How many?" Mommy askes of him
"How many and God why?"
And Daddy looks away from her
And Mamma starts to cry

"How many did you do this to?"
And then he looks at me
My green eye bruised the night before
And Daddy whispers "three"

This brings tears to my eyes everytime
I haven't been a victim, but this touches me very deeply.
** I can't remember the poet who wrote it

i lost my innocence at eight years old
and i wish someone would have told me that
i wish i hadn't figured it out by myself when my trust in anything that was supposed to be safe was already long gone
i wish i hadn't walked up to him
i wish i wasn't afraid to tell people that i did because i'm afraid to hear someone blame me for it
i wish i didn't blame me for it
i wish i never have to experience that awful feeling of simultaneous disgust, shame, dirtiness, and confusion again
every time i've taken my shirt off for ten years straight.
when i shower.
when anyone touches me even in the most innocent way.
that feeling like the only way i could ever feel completely clean would be to burn my skin off.
that feeling that consumes my mind out of the blue and suddenly i'm that little girl in the green and white striped skort again that didn't understand what happened to her
just that it was bad
the little girl that nobody taught to differentiate between what was okay along with the real, blunt reason why and what happened to her so any sort of physical contact with people felt wrong
i wish i could never feel that again
i wish it could be night all the time and no one would ever be around
they warn you about wandering too far from home when you're alone
about going out after dark and playing in places without people around
about the bad people, the sick malicious perverts, that you have to watch out for
they don't tell you about the good people that just don't know what they're doing
they don't tell you about the grandfather with dementia watching his grandson play at the park in broad day light surrounded by people
at least, they don't tell you to stay away from him
daylight has never made me feel more secure than darkness
and seeing people nearby has never brought me comfort
because nothing has ever made me feel more unsafe and vulnerable than that day in the park
in broad daylight
surrounded by people

Have some standards poets!
Your audience beckons you.
If you talk about genitalia...
Then think of what that says of you.
A supple blossom, coupled with utter elation,
It is not grabbing her breast: your udder titillation.
Write what you will, poetry is of the heart.
But don't force yourself on her and call it art!

Standards.
#poetry   #art   #rape   #breast   #genitalia   #titillation  

If you scream no one will hear you
If you scream I will kill you
Little  girl  of  seven
How ‘bout you bring me to heaven?

I’ll take you on a trip
You’ll feel your insides rip

It’s ten past noon
The beginning of June
She screamed anyway
In the middle of the day

Ten minutes before,
She knocked on her door
Nobody is home
She’s all alone

So she skipped to the park
Past trees of paper-white bark
To swing on the swings
Such a thoughtless innocent thing

He was looming there
She didn’t really care
Friendly he did seem
And tried to push her on the swing

Alarmed, she struggled to get down
He shoved her to the ground
The smell of cigarettes
The sound of deep heavy breaths

Deflowered was the maiden(head)
Defiled was the child
So loudly she had screamed
From the object he had reamed

Rough and rigid was the shaft
A sharp pain and the smell of blood
Briefly she blacked out from the traumatic flood

The monster bolted from the sound of her cries
What had he done? She understood.
Showed her womanhood

The smell of cigarettes
The beginning of regrets
The sting of his sixty second fling
Although he was gone
His stench lingered on

So once more, she ran to her apartment door
No  one was there to comfort her despair
On her porch she sat
Numb and waiting

Mom comes home and asks what’s wrong
Why did she take so long?
A police report was made
The girl’s memory begins to fade (shove it down, make it drown)

Ten past noon
That day in June
A sunny day in the park
Where her life went dark

Pretty self explanatory.
#anger   #hatred   #pain   #abuse   #innocence   #childhood   #violence   #rape   #stolen   #virginity  

She will never understand
Fundamentalist Christianity’s demand
To maintain a perfect flower
Solely for a husband to devour

Robbed of her innocence
She begs in the form of repentance
For acceptance and forgiveness
The entire congregation a witness

To victim shame is to victim blame
Even innocent children aren’t immune
Ten past noon on a sunny day in June
A girl’s hymen was breached
A sin in the eyes of the lord, the goodly preacher preached

An unmarried non-virgin is a whore and nothing more
A defiled child, her name reviled

She is blamed, she is shamed
By her own flesh and blood
Silenced was the little lamb
To hell she will be damned

Keep up the facade
Just smile and nod
Pretend to love the church
Cross necklace, bible, and long skirt
C’mon show your love! Buy that Jesus merch!

Wanting to shed her skin
A prison she’s trapped in
The most perfect of little girls
Except she lost her white pearls

A bitter pill to swallow
The Lord Jesus she must follow
Knowing her body’s imperfect
Understanding she’ll never be worth it

So with the congregation’s nod, the goodly preacher preached:
"For in the eyes of God,
A hymen which is breached
On a girl without a ring
Is worth nothing but a fling"

The aftermath of another poem (see Blood and Cigarettes). Often victims of assault are blamed, even small children. It is somehow our fault.

Read more.
Words are the map fragments of wisdom you need to navigate your way in a world constantly sending you searching for that which you don’t yet have a name.

Write more.
And don’t keep it to yourself.  Your voice deserves to be heard too so scream in cursive and whisper in all CAPS, bleed through paper and heal through the spines of notebooks
you’re spiraling onto something, breathe in commas and step over periods because you’re not over
you’re the most beautiful run-on sentence

paint more.
You’re an artist whose perspective warrants an audience,
so leave cerulean fingerprint traces in your titanium touches,
mix gesso with mars and be alizarin against charcoal

stand out. And stand up.

Find adventure in the every day.  Skydive through small talk, zip line through steps up stairs without an end,
life is the ellipses in silences your eyes seek to make stories,

explore.
This world. People. This city you’ve landed yourself and take calculated risks.

Tiptoe through moshpits and stomp through meadows.
Cartwheel into concrete conversations headfirst eyes wide open,

be vulnerable, to those who deserve to see the rawest parts of you.
And leave the ones who’d rather exploit them behind

leave others’ opinions behind.  Let them be the ones collecting dust.
You are stronger than you’ll ever know and ten-fold what they’d ever expect.

So let them guess.
Be the question mark in the corner they can’t place.

Your story is complicated.  But that makes you interesting.
What doesn’t challenge you doesn’t change you and you’ve been challenged each and every day

you get out of bed and speak when so easily you could’ve lost your voice the night you lost your body.
It took you some time and a few nameless faces to claim it again and you’re still working out what that means,
you’ve always had your own way
but all the sexual assault pamphlets name this normal.

[For once it’s a label you don’t detest.]

So this year be normal if you so choose, but also be weird.
Be loud, not small, be confident, and not sorry.
Take up space.
You deserve to.

You are Woman and you are Strong.

Push, but don’t ever shove.
Love unapologetically and fiercely.
But don’t force what a boy is not willing to give.

Find someone who will pay your heart the same attention he does your body.
Scratch that,
find yourself.

Read your body’s brail, your chapters of goosebumps, and play chess with checkers across your skin.
Unlearn and relearn and unlearn and learn to remember you are enough and it is your turn.

Look in the mirror and accept the pieces looking back are in progress.

Keep writing.

Watch the moon make way for the sun. Be brighter than both.
Let your irises draw constellations across galaxies unwritten.
Move so far forward, you stop having a reason to look back.

Forgive that which you cannot change.
You’ll make more mistakes, scrape more knees and trip on chainlink chokers, your jewelry limbs you haven’t yet untangled.
But forgive yourself.

Kiss the boy. Kiss the girl. Kiss no one.
Live in the present tense and with future declaratives.
Appreciate the thousands of little moments still looking to be made yours. Make them yours.

You are worth all the struggle.  Don’t forget.

Be kind but don’t rewind.  
Stay authentic even when you don’t make sense and your words aren’t oil enough to separate

paddle through the waves eyes closed if you have to,
the salt may burn your scars and you may lose your bearings, but keep going.
Maybe this is the year you’re going to learn to swim.

in progress because aren't we all unfinished

Michelle Obama is hopeless?
Well,
Why SHOULD she have any hope?
It's been a hopeless situation
Ever since Christopher Columbus
Arrived on the shore of the Island of Hispaniola.
His first words upon seeing the nearly naked bodies
Of Native American Women was,
"Let's fuck them bitches!"
Well,
Admittedly,
That probably wasn't the way Conquistadors spoke,
But That was just the way they ACTED!
The next Question was,
"Where's the Gold?"
It's been all downhill since then.
The Fact that Barack Obama
Was our "First Black President"
Didn't shift this pattern one iota.
It's worse than ever now!
The shit started hitting the fan a long time ago
And we haven't even BEGUN
To clean it up.

 
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