Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
i am sorry
that t i told you
how to feel
i only meant to tell you
what i hoped

it is from somewhere calm and deep within me
that i say
what happened to us?
i too ,miss the smiles and innocence
miss the laughter,the time we spent
miss so much the simple things
a glance in the middle of everyone
was all it took to make me feel like the only person in the world
what can i do but wait and hope and pray
for a day to come
one where innocence is restored
and your smile...makes me smile too
and your as contagious as that first day
where i threw dirt and missed on purpose
could barely keep my eyes away...afraid you'd notice
scared to death you would think i was some sort of freak
ecstatic when it made you happy
to talk almost all night to me
i want to go back
to a life that feels like that memory
i have no perfect way to ask, nor  words good enough to plead
but always will i ask
will you go back with me?

I know it is not as easy as snapping your fingers and moving your feet foward
i know i have hurt you deeply, and i know what it is like, i know that there will always be scars, i know...but above all....i know....that that is what i want most....i can only want it be friends...and really be friends...this should only last so would like if it would end...
thrity minutes passed like a blind man's blinking
too solid a sleep to dream what i was thinking
when i lead down took ten aseconds to sink back into sleep
when i woke, new sleep had taken thrity minutes, in a blink
somewhere in the distance
I have flatlined
and i hear wind in the trees outside
I'm lying here and all i can think
is that I'm in a coma (or dead)
somewhere -
sometime else
I hope i get help
you are the tiniest of scattered things
remembered in the cloudiest of dreams
so vivid when i sleep, sink deep, or
fly high into my head,
you are the characters in the books i have read,
the heroes, both living, and dead,
you are among the greatest of my ambitions,
you are a man, and to become one like you were is my mission,
but you are missing,
you were father, healer of hurts, great counselor,
you were there when i was in the room,
but i was not,
when i broke into two,
a shell of me, and i,
wishfully, blissfully,
irridescent moon,
you are, silver-hair, scattered through the many rooms,
the sudden, unexpected trill of an old familiar tune,
you are sometimes the songs you sang,
sometimes the silences
sometimes the gentle rain
sometimes my tears, or violences,
the woods we walked, the talks we talked
the cluttered house,
faded graphite, scribbled in the corners of notebooks, on walls,
in phonebooks, and on all
of my cards,
you are often here
when i am gone
and i am often gone
when you are near
it is the reuniting that i long for,
it is the forgetting that i fear.
you are all around me, but fading,
you are a pencil drawing,
losing its shading.
a perfect snapshot, on aging paper
once and only once a perfect snapshot, later
smeared, torn, lost, or forgotten,
burned, replaced with another, eaten by moths,
found wet, molded, yellowed, or rotten.
Returned to earth, or dust, or ash,
and though i long  to hold you in a perfect memory..
must pass.
i miss you.
from what i have tasted of desire
twas a divine insanity

the sky is torn across
thy voice is on the rolling air
tis moonlight, summer moonlight
who feels compassion for our inner fires.’
sung asleep with lullabies
groping, guessing, yet progressing
all the sweet pulsing aches

i remember the history well:  and enjoy fully the delights of love –
become so still you hear the blood flowing through your veins -
my wildest force, will you return?

you flicker, i cannot touch you
dont feel sorry for me
i will take the sun in my mouth
you flicker, i cannot touch you - sylvia plath
dont feel sorry for me - charles bukowski
i will take the sun in my mouth - e.e.cummings
from what i have tasted of desire robert frost
twas a divine insanity emily dickinson

all the sweet pulsing aches ernest hemingway
groping, guessing, yet progressing cs lewis
the sky is torn across dylan thomas
thy voice is on the rolling air alfred lordy tennyson
tis moonlight, summer moonlight emily bronte
who feels compassion for our inner fires.’ dante aligheri
sung asleep with lullabies robert herrick

my wildest force, will you return? thomas wolfe
become so still you hear the blood flowing through your veins - mirabai
i remember the history well: ben okri
and enjoy fully the delights of love - czelaw-milosz
Talk is cheap but it's not a cheap addiction
payed for every word i spoke with every wound inflicted

withdrawal symptoms: high level of emotional stress, depression, anger and bouts of uncontrollable rage, more depression, bitterness, resentment, trust issues even with the trustworthy, aversion to physical affection despite the craving for it, loneliness, contradictory thoughts and feelings, paradoxes of actions and intentions, silence, and poetry.

I guess my options are to avoid or entertain my addiction
"hello, how have you been, if I'm talking will you listen?"
I won't play the victim,
my head is made of stone,
my feet are made of gravel,
this dirt is all they've known.

"Here lies a poet, lost in his own head,
not knowing hell from heaven,
nor life from being dead."
self conscious
not so much in the sense
of feeling like everyone is looking at me
but like i am looking at every bit of myself.
i found two stones of onyx
they did differ in their size
i found them above soft red rock cliffs
surrounded by circles like shattered stars
of fire so blue in some places
it shakes and laces white
writhing, like water struck by light-
ning - flecks of sea-
shot upward by electric energy

i can see without  a mirror
into the eyes of the storm
like a whirlpool that wrecks ships
whitewater that rarely quits
unexpected instant shifts when at about six inches away
sideways to sit beside you
forward sometimes (in my minds eye mind you)
i sit where i sit
but envision lip skip space to lips
to sip redlipped kisses, miss,
momentarily slip over simple clever quip
let out in sunshine after a snare drum stutter or two
I...I..I have a girlfriend, but who are you?
Agony and pain
Make love
I sit in a church pew, keep quiet
think ideas outrageous enough to ...start a riot
most men swallow only truths that are shallow
ideas that are not to be questioned because they're hallowed
the scared, the weak, and fools fill up the building
ears closed to the message behind the words that they are shielding
blindly, willing to throw their bodies to the flames
for higher truths that lift the rope to where they're hanged
They say that truth is black and white, i guess they didn't see it blend
like blood and sweat on a heretics skin - to the Jews-  he was a heretic to them
guess they haven't realized eyes that never really try to see may as well have always been blind
guess your truth is easy to find
I've seen them lay it in your hands, those half ignorant red-faced men in pulpits in the heartland
They've got a lot to say, and i take it with a grain of salt
but God himself said test the spirits - go a little deeper, walk the walk
so wrap your mind around the words and what they really mean
let the truth and the heretic that brought it be your king
i am
advocating heresy
I am a christian. I do not want my beliefs to be misconstrued. This poem is meant to point out that truth should not be so easily given it's title. Truth should be tested, and known to be true, before it is called such. In calling Jesus a heretic, i am not saying he was not God. I believe he was. I am simply for the impact inserting historical details - in the eyes of the Pharisees and Sadducees - the God of the universe was dubbed heretic. It tends to be this way - when men have religious power - God himself becomes the heretic ( not in truth but in how people see him and what he stands for). any questions, feel free to ask. About content or form.
reading a few simple words
feels much more like a piece of me crumbling
than i ever knew
was possible
i should find the bright side
love is not for me
it is for you
i am glad you are happy
we were a classical case
of too many chemicals
catalytic affections
that infect with their tentacles
grab hold, render me wrecked
in the best of ways and the worst
sweet poison that sates something
only to instill a greater thirst
Background bombarded by
four/four back beat
.44 - bang!
forty-four  goodbye.
If four-four is meant to be hyphenated I'm a little off, but oh well.
But i suppose if forty-four is meant to be two words it evens out:p
You could have heard
The wingbeat of a wingless bird
I was frozen in place
Stiff, with a stone for a face
Legs heavy as mountain sized blocks of granite
Probably not a force on this planet
Could have moved me, at least I doubt it

After all the hate you’ve radiated
All the silence you’ve created
I am welded to the wall at my back
Not strong enough to
Take the two steps that it’d take to
Walk over and sit next to you
Tell you how many things
I wish that I could take back
But you do the thing I can’t
The last thing I think you’d want
You get up, walk, take two steps and stop
Sit facing me
A face I never thought I’d see
Look at me again
Especially not with that spark in your smile
It always told me when
Your smile was real

My eyes trace
Every inch of your face
In glances
Glances like the dances
Of shadows chased away by midnight
Broken by firelight
Yours trace mine

I take in the complex mix
Of tears hiding in your eyes
Shifting glances sliding by
Subtle smiles bursting I
Think I see a remnant of friendship
Hoping just a little bit
Hoping for a hope, that’s it
Think the (soft ,strong, wavy, weak)
Punctuation of our voices when we speak
Reveals it almost perfectly

I chew on every word I hear
With every word I speak
And the whole time we’ve been talking
My heartbeat has been shaking my rigid body loose
Stone skin sloughing off
As if I were a cement snake
(I feel like a snake)
(in the background)
(and in the background I think)
(this might be the feeling that makes)
(both our smiles sneak off our face)

We speak in broken sentences
And repeat ourselves
And speak in
Broken sentences
It sounds to me like
Words begging to be heard
Being heard again
But for the first time
I looked around for a knife. Remembered that night.
Wanted to forget my promise.  Remembered where the blade was, just out of sight.
resolved to write. fill an empty blank white
with words that might
let me sleep tonight.
Five. A simple number. Not so simple getting here. But it seems like my whole life was lived up until we began - so that we could begin - and make it this far- and even farther...i just don't know how far...and more than anything i wish i knew.. i wishwe'd get to see each other more than every two or three weeks... we've been talking all the time - mostly about nothing at all. And i miss you like crazy baby... I feel far from you...and it worries me...I hate feeling far from you...when you're the one I'm closest to. It isn't a pretty place, and I don't know what to do, but I've had this line of a song stuck in my head for like a day or two..."If you don't like how this place is, then take yourself to higher places". That's what we'll do. We've been in high places together. And we've been low. We've been places we shouldn't go. But I'm where I want to be whenever I'm with you...and today is special so I want you to know...while feelings go up and down and we do too, my love for you will always be atleast this big.
                                                                                                                              Codybear, your very own STR
There is something almost magick about your lips
as they smile a smile so big
that it almost shuts your eyes
There is something almost magick about this
and reality is more magical than every fairytale

I din't tell you to read my ****
never wanted to make you feel bad for it
split myself opened up blood and veins, transparent on pages
saw you quote song lyrics like they were designed to spit in peoples faces
maybe you meant me, and maybe ya didn't. i aint mad if it wasn't me
but it's ******* for me to fake it and this is where i'm freest to be me,
so if it's here that makes you say
"never underestimate a man's ability to make you feel guilty for his mistakes"
well look in a mirror and don't be like that man who forgets his own face
face it, i'm not the only one who's made mistakes.
I love you, now let's move on from this place,
i hate the silence and the distance
and the slightest semblance, the bleakest resemblance
to what we might have had, or thought we did,
to what we swore to when we said we accepted all the **** that comes with each other
why are we acting  like this when we were almost, maybe, sort of, lovers?
when we're friends,
the rare kind,
that come once,
maybe twice if you're lucky three times
in a lifetime,  
(all different of course)

I am tired.
I am sore.
I miss you.
Let us rest together, if only a moment more. . .
that one with the chemicals.
I can’t write a limerick for crap
Now I want a mocha Joe frap
But burger king is far
As most fast food joints are
And now I don’t have time for a lap
I have happened upon the most interesting of thoughts. If one's goal is to find truth - and truth, innately to be found, necessitates knowing - and this is extended outwards unto everything in life - eventually, truth, and it's knowing, must bridge the gap of death. Dying is just another form of finding truth. Why should i fear it's sting?
I forgot she was broken
words left unspoken leave me stupefied
lost in confusion or lost in lies
the simple fact is on her face
she speaks, she sings, but there is no trace
in the silence

an amorphous entity
bubbles deep inside of me
writhes in what i am not sure
only pieces can i lure
into my view from outside in
an amorphous entity
the feeling deep within
Unidentified emotion- an amorphous entity
And here I am, and there i went,
but i didn't take a single step,
i stood here fighting the urge to chase you
as you shrank to a picturesque twinkle in the distance
not thinking "what use is this"? but
"if this is what she wants, this is what she gets".
she is a dancer
I am  music
we are at times out of sync
her steps may clash with my beat
her ease may be mismatched to my harshness
but we are by our very essences entwined
I am the sky
she is the sea
I, with my gravity,
draw her to me,
We are together
when we are apart
because against all sense
we are senseless as art
we are like blood
and like veins
we move through each other
we crave
we are like wanderings
and feet, and hearts,
we are so close,
but so far apart
i was standing there
and then i realized it was dark
and then i lost all sense of direction
and then i lost all sense of location
and then i feared i was a step away from falling off a cliff
They were crawling on me
I couldn't breathe
their claws clung to my covers
i was stiff
unable to move,
i forced a single breath into my lungs, and snapped to,
and they were gone,
but what were they?
They were crawling on me
I couldn't breathe
their claws clung to my covers
i was stiff
unable to move,
i forced a single breath into my lungs, and snapped to,
and they were gone,
but what were they?
They were crawling on me
I couldn't breathe
their claws clung to my covers
i was stiff
unable to move,
i forced a single breath into my lungs, and snapped to,
and they were gone,
but what were they?
Diversity of motivation among self-harming individuals

An estimated one in twelve teenagers has committed self-harm. Of those many will continue self-injuring into young adult hood. Yet older adults are not immune to committing this act. In 2003-2004 adults age 25-44 were responsible for nearly fifty percent of reported/discovered self-harm cases.  There are many reasons that people self-harm. These reasons may include self-harming as a survival mechanism, self-harm as an outer expression of inner emotional turmoil, and self-harm as a means to exercise control over one’s environment.
Contrary to popular thought, only one in ten people who make the decision to self-harm are suicidal. The majority of people who cause injury to themselves willfully have a wish to avoid killing themselves. The act of self-harm is developed as a “technique” to cope and survive the afflictions of life. How can we know that this is the reasoning or thought behind the action of self-harm? “Cutters” typically reason out the least amount of damage that will “remedy” the stress intensive situation that they find themselves in, and exercise an enormous amount of restraint in inflicting only a measured amount of damage. Cutters’ common logic is that through this expression of injury, further damage to their selves may be headed off. --------, a former cutter, attests to the reality of this when he says, “Every time that I touched a blade to my skin, I would resist making a larger cut, a deeper wound. Every time that I hurt myself, I did so only in response to what drove me over the edge; Each time the amount of physical damage that I did was the very least that I could muster. I fought to do the least damage I could, no matter how intense the pain that I felt became.” He sums it up rather nicely.
Secondly, self-harm is used as an outward expression of deeper, more complex emotional and psychological phenomena. It is not a diagnosis; it is a symptom. It is a symptom of a struggle that is inherited by victims of abuse, those who lose a loved one, or experience other traumatic events during their childhood. These groups are far more likely to indulge in self-harm. One study conducted by Boudewyn and Liem found that of those college students that reported a history of self-harm, fifty two percent had been sexually abused as a child. Those that self-harm do not simply cut to cut, burn to burn, or mutilate to mutilate. There is a deeper motivation. This motivation is commonly emotional. These motivational emotions are often the results of tragic or traumatic life experiences. It is seldom that a cutter’s motivation is a want for attention.  In fact, most cutters are chameleons.
Self- harm is used as a tool to exercise control in a chaotic environment over which one would not otherwise have any means to control. Among chaos and turmoil such as the loss of a parent or close friend, relational betrayal, divorce of one’s parents, or consistent, one time, or sporadic physical, emotional, or ****** abuse an individual is radically more likely to engage in self-harm. Outside reasoning on this is only speculative. For this reason it is valuable to look at the action from the perspective of those who commit it. Cody, the same individual mentioned earlier says something else that lines up with this common scholarly opinion. He says “I remember the very first time I cut myself intentionally. I was in the ninth grade, in the school bathroom. I had just experienced what I saw as betrayal by my best friend of about ten years. I felt like I lost him. I felt like things were spinning out of control, and I couldn’t control the way I felt about it all. The only way I could feel that control was with something sharp in my hand.” This is characteristic not only of ----- but also of many other cutters.
Cutters are not (necessarily) crazy. On the surface it may appear that cutting goes against the ingrained survival and self-preservation instincts in human beings. This is actually the opposite of the truth. Many who cut feel that if they don’t inflict smaller harm to themselves that they may indeed fall to suicide. They feel that by letting out their pain in increments, and escaping in fragments, that they can slay the thoughts of suicide and urges to escape that they carry. When at the edges of rational, some instincts may take different forms. What may seem counter intuitive – an act of self-harm – becomes the definition of an instinct that it seems to defy. The desire to survive becomes so strong that it is necessary to inflict pain. This is not uncommon to survival situations. For example, the movie 127 Hours reenacts the experience of a man trapped under a boulder in a beautiful and secluded gorge. He cut off his own arm with a dull multi-tool in order to escape death. That act is the epitome of self-harm as a survival instinct.
Cutting could lead to a series of events that tailspin out of control. Loss of control could take the form of the spiral of therapies and prescriptions that would follow if it were discovered that one were cutting , or it could be the accidental slip of a blade gone too far. It could end in hospitalization. It could even end in death. However, those individuals who choose to cut, as long as sober, take precautions to avoid discovery or more injury than is intended. They are meticulous, careful even. They reason out how, where, and when they can cut “safely”. They are very much in control over the act, when they feel they cannot be in control of anything else.
It may rationally appear that pain is pain. That it would make no difference whether out or inward, because whatever its state, the pain is still owned by the individual. However, emotions are often harder to process than physical events. A burning rage, hate or guilt may well be harder to cope with than a burn to one’s arm, leg, or hand. An emotional cut to the bone may be less painful than a physical one. It may be said that the act does not transform the pain, but multiplies it. This in essence may be true, but one form of pain allows a man to ignore another. A pinch may allow a man to ignore the emotional pain of a nightmare. A small cut may allow ignorance of the bigger cut on one’s spirit or psyche.
There are widely varying and increasingly complex variations of motivation and cause of self-harm. They may include, but are absolutely and in no way limited to: self-harm as a coping or survival mechanism, self-harm as a tool to exercise control over one’s increasingly chaotic environment, and self-harm as an outer expression of inner emotional turmoil. To believe that cutting is simple is to nearly deny it altogether. Its essence is complicated. Stereotyping self-harm or self-harmers may well lead to opinions that will ostracize or further encourage the occurrence of self-harm.  Since the motivation and causes of self-harm are undeniably complex, to attempt to brush this under a rock would be to diminish its importance, and to deny healing to those who need to understand it.
An urge
to fall on my face in the embers
scoop them up in my palms to give me scars that I'd remember
To Pray
God would take his very fingertips
rip open my chest
and throw my heart at the nearest star
because that kind of surrender
that kind of sacrifice
is much too far
when all I can think about is how far
I've fallen,
from what I thought He wanted me to be.
Consume me with warranted zealotry.
I am tired of praying But not feeling.
I am tired of doing and not being.
Release me from all I can't break free from.
thick and heavy with water
drops falling to earth intermittently
like a child's hands slapping at dirt
ruffling forest floor
amidst chaos
of torrential rain
and torrential river

Im not scared to drown,
I'll let you pull me in
I thought
"you and i have what she and i lost"
It's not easy
to be sure of what I've got
there is
that sort of
in my chest
not butterflies
but this
this is new...different...
this can take my breath.
It's been far too long and I've been living in my chest
suffocating in blood from the wounds that she left. . .
and for a time i had forgotten you had watched
(buried it more like)
but when i remembered...
that on a day many months didn't go
when i wanted to
you held me there...
in your driveway..
almost from third person, i watched my self
you keep telling me i didn't deserve it...
you said it'd be okay

and baby..the irony of that
isn't lost on me today.
My dad used to say, any day above ground is a good day.
Guess he had to make sense of it all somehow.
Guess he had to soften the blow of his slow walk down
Wonder if he ever wished it was quicker.
Doubt he ever had all the answers.
Promise you he knew what a day was worth.
Wish I would have known it before he
hid in the earth.
gossamer silver rays dance and lurch lovingly across the face of silken smooth waters
liquid heat rears its head on the lonely shore, ducking when i spot it
wandering feet cross tentatively over dull glass sands that scream
dust and sweat fill the lungs of youth that dream
thick woven moonbeams and the rythmic pulse of speakers saturate the air
children in a drunken stupor stumble across the dying embers and don't care
unfeeling, they are lulled to sleep by empty thoughts
bottles slip from their hands and their friends step over them
i hope they can find their way home in the morning
If there were ever anything to speak of, anything of value, anything worth desiring, then it shall turn out to not have been dissolvable. And if, on the other hand, it has dissolved, then well, what substance was there beforehand? Perhaps things of worth can change, perhaps they can be caused to shift unfortunately for the worse, but i think the things worth keeping are able to be kept.  Those things which matter most are of a substance incorruptible. It is our deepest desires that are answered by those things which cannot be destroyed. If a thing can be destroyed, it cannot answer our deepest desires. And so i continue on, testing each thing, each moment, to discover not only its substance, but its value. And i find, more commonly than not, that this question will remain until I am transformed into remains myself. And upon that moment, I will know what was worth it, and what time was squandered in seeking things much more frivolous than they appeared. Above all, i will know that life itself was not a thing squandered, for by death it will not be ended, and if by death, then by nothing.
I gave you a glance
said a shy hello
spontaneously erupted into smiles
walked away with a new friend
spent countless hours, days, months
together and on the phone, talking
building dreams

and now
I am unsure
If you're standing still
or walking away
and if it means
I entreat you, muse
remind me now of the segment of my soul
that has oft'n been responsible for the creation of terrible beauty.
Yes, i do understand that some terror must prevail- that my page alone may be my peace - when i find it nowhere else -
If this is what i must accept-
then i do willfully receive your woe -
if this is where i go, then through the valley
of the shadow of death,
i shall come to know,
that beauty may be from dear tragedy removed
and art is ne'er far behind a broken heart
a soul that drowns apart form
painting words onto some blank canvas
and even and empty mind has merit
for all things empty may be filled at the will of some divine entity-
i entreat thee-
bring to my hands this dear artistry
though inevitably it shall hedge a broken heart in me
six things men are eager for ,
even seven things do bring sorrow to hearts,
gain by wicked means,laughter at the sorrow of another,
empty smiles to hide their hearts
fake happiness to eclipse their real sorrow,
wasting time, wasting money,  
even the squandering of the soul
A rose in the dark
may still be admired for it's sweetness.
People's lives are like far away places
and all we can see are their faces
and faint traces and flashes
of their soul when it seeps through the cracks
because it crashes at it's outmost edges.

It's as though we nearly think
that their soul is what they do, but no
and neither is it who they claim to be, or show,
it is where they have been, and where they shall go.

We gasp for air,  we grasp it there
that others must breathe too.
Somehow storms still shock us with their might,
somehow even when i dont want to, breathing feels right
Somehow i know that i was breathed to life

somehow sparks that set afire,
though they consumed all i was,
became small sprouts of life to spire,
from the hardest dirt i'd ever seen,
when i was the worst man I had ever been
they stalked my essence in the ashes,
saw through all of the smudges, scratches,
held me up to light and saw,
an image etched, demanding awe,
there it was, but with blurred edges,
the image of My god implanted,
seed within my soul to bear,
the harshest winds, the hottest air.

So, as above, so below
even stars search for somewhere to go
In me, i see my friend,
In my friends I see my end,
in my end i see beginning, so long as the earth is spinning,
and when finally it stops,
when we've all forgotten clocks,
then in heaven as on earth,
shall we know that all has worth,
and remember then shall we,
all the roots, of life, the tree.
your voice frantic in voicemail lit up my night like mortar fire
i hurdled headfirst, crashed outward and over, chased by fear and following desire
broke through my door and stepped into the stars
filled with panicked concern and without a thought ignoring my scars  
frigid fingers shaking with shock at hearing your voice
not a thought, not a question, not a choice
just did it
"find her number, **** it where is it"
"she's not on speed dial - new phone"

finally found it - still first in my contacts
your name embroidered at the edges with ASCII smiles  
catch in my chest, my worry spreading like cancer
dialed your number, but there was no answer
I thought about breaking the close semblance to silence, but instead i chose to choke my words back and reinforce the lack of violence. This that seems so quiet, is so inside of me as rough as a riot. A riot put down, but not by my conscience. By the concepts of reason, and their obvious relevance
Body brimming with sensations.
inhabited by aches built up from ages.
You are only twentytwo.
But you're ancient soul,
And I hurt like you.
You've seen much
And known much beyond what you can speak.
You're bent double in the dirt,
But no pained sounds scratch dry across your lips.
Instead, this drumbeat.
Permeating the air with your presence.
Your ancient cadence and effervescence.
Its ever present
And it lingers
Tingles tinged with nectars sweeter
Converge at your coming,
At your going
They scatter to the four corners of the earth.
At Vesper's whisper, one evening far,
You'll find your star-singed edges
Returning to where you are.
You shall know yourself.
*** trafficking – the trafficking and debasement of souls; Drug trafficking – the trafficking of substances that debase the body.  Here compared you will find the prevalence, impact, and rehabilitation processes associated with *** and shrug trafficking.  Respective clientele, demographics, and locales that these types of trafficking touch will be revealed in order enlighten you to their world-wide prevalence. The physical, emotional, spiritual, and psychological impact of lifestyles that result from these two types of trafficking will be detailed to etch vividly an image of just how far-reaching the impact of these two activities is. Light will be shed upon the rehab processes that lead to recovery from each.
                 According to, the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime, the use of illicit drugs has remained in a stable trend, with approximately the same number of people using illicit drugs each year. This trend has continued for a number of years. Upon examining the world drug report, written by, production of several drugs exhibit particularly interesting trends. ***** production for example fell and spiked in a somewhat predictable patter from 1990 until 2010. When this data is graphed a reasonable medium appears for all the years, revealing that ***** production has stayed around an average production of roughly 200,000 hectares annually. Likewise, coca cultivation pictures an interesting trend. From 1990 to 2010 coca production appeared to be almost identical each year, and with little to no rise or fall in production, there is a similar trend in its being trafficked.  
Nefarious: Merchant of Souls is a documentary that was released in 2012 by Exodus Cry Its producers and researchers saw firsthand the atrocities of the *** trafficking industry. The film crew interviewed former pimps and prostitutes, spoke to traffickers, the families of the trafficked and to individuals still actively engaged in three sides of the *** trade referring to currently employed pimps and prostitutes as well as those who purchased ***. The researchers and producers interviewed eastern European gang members and took a trip to Amsterdam’s red-light district – home of legal prostitution. They journeyed to Los Angeles and saw the glamorized side of the dark issue of *** trade.
According to Nefarious, the number of humans trafficked for the purpose of providing ****** services is on a shockingly steep rise. In a matter of a few years, *** trafficking rose from the third largest criminal enterprise to the second. It is second only to drug trafficking and is vying for the position as top criminal enterprise in the world. It is encroaching upon that position far more speedily than any authority or decent human being would care to acknowledge.  A survey taken in 2010 by DART (the drug awareness resistance training program) revealed that 21.8 million people aged 12 and older had taken an illicit drug in the previous month. In 2010 it was estimated that between 153 and 300 million people had used an illicit drug at least once in the previous year. These statistics fail to take into account the impact that this usage has on the lives of the families of drug users. Neither do these statistics reveal the extent to which drug users lifestyles are impacted by drugs. However, nearly  every single human trafficked for ****** purposes is completely and utterly enveloped in the lifestyle of prostitution and the violent world of being prostituted. In Nefarious a shocking statistic is revealed. Approximately ten percent of the entire human population of earth has been trafficked. Both human and drug trafficking are prevalent across the globe. Human trafficking occurs in 161 of 192 countries. Illicit drugs are trafficked in every country that has laws that deem substances unlawful. There are little to no race, religion, ethnicity, or age restrictions on who can and is trafficked for use of ***, but drugs are far more limited by age and ethnicity in their use.
Drug trafficking, though similar to *** trafficking in many ways, is in no way as substantial a damaging force to the mind, soul, and spirit as the world of *** trafficking  is in terms of the critical and dangerous force it exhibits in the emotional, physical, psychological, and spiritual  impact it has on young girls. Both drugs and *** trafficking have some influence in all of these respective areas. The primary area in which people are affected by drug use is the physical. Drug users’ health declines, they become physically or psychologically dependent, and they may develop diseases from sharing of needles or lack of inhibitions that lead to *** with an infected individual. Drugs may, in some rare cases, lead to psychoses and mental disorders. They may cause brain damage, which is both physically and mentally damaging. Drugs may even set one’s heart and soul in a place that they are more susceptible to lies or truth. They alter spiritual state for some individuals, but only mildly. However, *** trafficking victims are impacted majorly and in their entirety as a person. In all aspects of the physical, mental, and spiritual, *** trafficking victims are consumed by *** trafficking. In Nefarious it is revealed that In order to “break” *** trafficking victims they are profusely beaten, and are psychologically toyed with to create a twisted trust and dependence on their various handlers. They are repeatedly *****, and are examined like cattle by those who wish to buy women. They are imprisoned in dark rooms and not allowed to leave unless told to do so. They are bedridden and forced to ******* themselves. After being broken in ways described above and sold to a ****, girls are forced every day to meet certain quotas of customers and cash flow. If they do not meet these they are beaten even more. They lay in bed sometimes a week at a time to recover physically enough to usefully return to their “job”.  Through this hellish ordeal, their soul, self-worth and identity are being attacked by circumstances that devalue them. They become like animals.
*** trafficking victims become dependent on their environment for normalcy. This is so true for some individuals that even though they have been rescued from the lifestyle, they return.  This is not because the *** trafficking victims enjoys the lifestyle of prostitution, and it is not because they want to. Instead, it is because they think they can be nothing more than a *******. The *** trafficking victim, in this case, believes that they need to settle into the numb and thoughtless mind state that they develop when broken. Returning to prostitution does not evidence an addiction. In contrast, it is the cry of a soul that is desperately trying to cope. They do this in order to feel as if they can survive.  
The rehab processes for *** and drug trafficking differ greatly in commitment and length, but are similar in that they both require physical and psychological rehabilitation.  Drug rehabilitation programs typically consist of twelve-step programs or something similar. They last a number of months, or occasionally a few years. They allow individuals counsel and encouragement, and they attempt to, by abstinence, exorcise an addicted individual’s addiction. *** trafficking rehabilitation requires the re-creation of an individual. Self-worth must be reconstructed. The spirit must be healed in order to allow for psychological healing. Prostitutes are not addicted to prostitution, but prostitution produces dependence in that the prostituted crave normalcy. This dependence must be killed. Successfully rehabilitating women from this forced lifestyle requires lifelong commitment and endless resources. It requires passionate fanatics, people who will pour their life into changing the lives of others, because only the incurable fanatic can wreak havoc on the tragedy of human trafficking. Any short-term effort to rehabilitate a *** trafficking victim is doomed to failure. The degree to which the brokenness of *** trafficking victims becomes ingrained in them is so extreme that it takes a lifetime to reshape their lives.
While researching *** trafficking in order to accurately produce Nefarious, the researchers and producers of Nefarious became convicted by facts that they collected. The evidence they collected speaks to the fact that *** trafficking does not just attack the body; it attacks the entire being, and in far worse ways than drugs ever could. Varied races and ages are prostituted and / or consume drugs. The impact of both of *** and drug trafficking is severe, but much more so severe in the case of human trafficking. The rehab process for human trafficking is much more in depth and is testament to the horror and degree of psychological, mental, and emotional disfigurement, as well as acclimation to a horrible situation to the point that horror becomes normal – a new definition of addiction. Human trafficking is an atrocity that is far more horrendous and prevalent than imaginable. It is far more destructive than drug trafficking. Drug trafficking is one of the most destructive forces in this generation.  Surely consuming drugs is one of the most horrid things we can do to our bodies, but what about consuming souls? *** trafficking consumes souls, hearts, minds and bodies. It splits, fragments, debases, brutalizes, obliterates, murders, rapes, molests, destroys, and dehumanizes the prostituted.  Drug trafficking attacks the body the soul, and sometimes the mind, but in much milder ways.
called you beautiful before
this time i notice your body
she likes my black box brain
i chalk me up to chalk lines, it's proof i'm just, insane
i keep her head spinning
in the way she likes
edges toe-tested
like cold waters on summer nights
she loves my scoundrel heart
i love not having to hide
we have to work to love
but then our hearts collide
we feel some tensions now and then
unexplained rhythms when we remember where we've been
continuing adventures, and visiting old places that have become new again
the only days wasted are the ones we are apart
because even boring ones shared between best friends
are worth getting up, and not giving up
and now is where it starts.
Begin. . .
That it has so quickly become so dark
when not yet an hour here has passed
and moments ago the sun stood royal, stark
and whispered in my ear "you own love at last"
But own I thee love?
Or dost thou own me, love?
For but a slave
though far from hopeless
happy are all manner of
man who sells himself for to purchase adoration
selfless, in pursuit of all he chases
he is chasen
for aeons
aging only at the hands of what he sought
for curiosity had hearts and minds quickly bought
given to the wondering
found within, man
abandoned the wind to chase the wind
ever i hope that we shall ne'er again abandon him
abandoned the wind to chase the wind "the hebrew word tranliterted "ruach" means wind, spirit, and breath. it is used of both the spirit of god, and the lifegiving breath of god, as well as the wind all around us. revealing i think.
Broken together or broken apart
at the start my heart
is torn asunder
my lover torn from me by another
By the cadence of my steps,
A jilted lover shall know death.
And if in morning she shall wake,
She'll know her lost And lonely mate.
We trail and trek,down unto doom,
In lengthy night and shortened noon
We Lovers hold each others hearts,
And trip,and choke,
And break, now hark:
The cadence comes, hers matches mine,
We cuckold be: by loves fair shine,
Know only bends and shattering,
And we grow tired, wait,and see.
Next page