Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Jun 2016 Rnw
Maple Mathers

Dear Mother and Father,*

        I spoke with Ali today. Maybe it was the first time in years. Maybe it was the first time that we’d ever actually spoken at all. Either way. She told me some things that I thought you should know.

Prostitutes, ******, what have you. They’re not born, they’re created.

         Focus on this. Your white picket fence. Your barbecue, your big family dog. Your pristine, rich neighborhood. Your uppity gossip. Your rules, judgements, “charity.”

         Behind your closed doors, however, dwells something else.

         Something like hypocrisy. Something like abuse.

Now focus on this.

         Ali: dark and brooding, even as a small child. Questioning all of your family values, the ones that I had merely accepted.

         My little sister, the ultimate judge, the supreme *****.

         Forbidden black fingernails, black hair; fingernails, which you forced pink, hair that you insisted blond. Friends that you deemed “greasy” and “unsavory”.

         Hateful, teenage Ali. Ditching classes to go off with boys. Returning home with track marks and glossy eyes. Sneaking out with no destination, if only to not be at the one place she couldn’t be herself.

         Home.

Now, this. That awful “it’s not to late to save your soul” camp. A reform jail. Holier than thou epithets. Squeaky clean repentance. A stockade full of higher authority telling her, “you’re wrong,” telling her, “we are going to fix you.”

         Brain washing robots with backhanded facades.

         Sad, scared Ali. It’s no wonder she chose to rebel, for all she knew of authority was hypocrisy.

         Not just you.

         Instead, a withered, sick janitor.

         The old man who brought her the food that they didn’t serve in the dinning quarters. Fresh fruit, chocolate, and cheese. Food to outweigh the everyday gruel.


         This lonely, forlorn man expecting compensation in return. ****** compensation; unimaginable and certainly ungodly acts.

         This Janitor, he would wander into Ali's room in the early hours of the morning. . . And vanish, several hours later.

        His pockets, empty. His heart, full.

         In this sick and twisted world, the janitor believed that love could exist anywhere. He believed that romantic relationships should not be constricted by something as trivial as age.

         And Ali, she had alternative motives, and compensated her innocence to reach them.

         This was, perhaps, the beginning of Ali's stark career.

         The *compensation of her soul.


         Or, perhaps, it was the man that picked her up next, as a desperate hitchhiker.

         Ali, who finagled the nun’s keys and escaped that ungodly place forever.

         Ali, who climbed into a sinister car with a pretentious man who warped her in more ways than one would even imagine.

         Penniless, solitary, and willing.

         But, think. What would you do with yourself if you had absolutely nothing and no one to lose?

         **Prostitutes, ******, what have you. They’re not born, they’re created.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)


.
 Jun 2016 Rnw
Arlo Disarray
I wish that I could close my eyes
and go back to being five
To when things were simpler
and I just loved being alive

If only then I knew
the future pain of losing you
I would've held on so much tighter
through the speedy times I grew

I miss the sound of Saturday
when I would hear you mow the lawn
As I woke up to start the weekend
with a sleepy morning yawn

I always loved your sincere smile
when I'd bring home my awesome grades
And how you'd take me out for pizza
every time I got straight A's

You were the greatest dad I could've had
I miss you every day
Thank you for the love you gave
and for making me this way
 May 2016 Rnw
Arlo Disarray
two beers away from empty, I'm nearing closer to the end of my creativity
and the lights outside are dimming

is there something they're trying to tell me?
such a subtle message, I'm not sure I fully grasp it

how many moons have cycled since I got here?
I'm not really sure what time I'll be leaving

the lights within the sky are being fought with
and the city seems to unfairly be winning

I'm not aware of when I started here
but I can see the dull moon slyly grinning
 Apr 2016 Rnw
devante moore
My circle of trust is so small, even I'm not in it
 Jan 2016 Rnw
Graff1980
She is my second favorite poet on this list
But she doesn't need to be reminded of this
She doesn't give a ****
Cause she is here for her
Not for my approval
As she hits the high note
Of the last bars that she wrote
With a little sneer she disappears
Holding that disdain in her veins
From years of abuse

I compliment her but
My blandishments fall on angry ears
She fakes gratitude
Not understanding the sincerity
Of my compliments
Assuming I am sexualizing her
That I am just another perv

I understand
I thank her and walk away
Never letting even an inkling show
Through my face
But I am disappointed

She could have been my ally
Not my lover or fling but friend
Dismisses me so offhandedly and angrily
But I let it slide
There is always other nights
There are always other venues
Under softer lights
Where writers delight
In what others write
And they are not so angry
But she is still my second favorite
 Nov 2015 Rnw
anonymous999
when you say "no" and he says "please" SAY IT LOUDER
when you say "drive me home" and he says "five minutes" SAY IT AGAIN
when you say "no" and he says "just once" LEAVE
when you say "no" and he says "nobody has to know" SAY GO **** YOURSELF
when you say "no" and he says "but i bought you dinner" GET OUT OF THE CAR
when you say "no" and he says "yes" SAY NO

when you say no, SAY IT LOUDER, SAY IT AGAIN, LEAVE, GO **** YOURSELF, GET OUT OF THE CAR, NO

No.
 Nov 2015 Rnw
Myaja Black
Why did i let him in?10 months have passed but I've still haven't forgot,Counselor tells me to forgive,trick question ,Do I forgive me for not fighting as hard as I could,not screaming loud  enough, allowing him in my house,or trusting him.Flashbacks include scrubbing my skin till it was irritated trying to remove his scent,only one question haunts me daily,why did I let him in?So called friend that was there when I needed him never crossed my mind he would commit such a sin.Yes he did the crime but I did the time ,Time spent crying and punishing myself for what happened is it true you can control others actions? why couldn't I stop him from tearing off my underwear?Could I stop him from stealing what was rightfully mines?On a mission to get it back, It shouldn't have Left me anyways,but I'm scared to knock on his door scared once he sees my tears he'll realize the score,why did I let him in when he knocked on my door?
 Nov 2015 Rnw
Molly
Statistics
 Nov 2015 Rnw
Molly
I told myself I wouldn't write another **** poem.

I told myself reliving the same traumas
over
and over
would not aid in the healing process,
but these are not
the same traumas,
this is not
another **** poem,
there is just
so much ******* material
that it's starting to run together.

She went to a movie with him,
somewhere public,
somewhere safe,
and still he drug his hand
up her thigh,
she kept her mouth shut,
tried to push him away,
wouldn't want to interrupt the best scene,
whispered
"stop",
he didn't listen.

He was in his girlfriend's bedroom,
watched her sit in silence
fuming
when he said
"no"
for the fourth time,
told himself to
man up
when she said
"what, don't you love me?"
He swore he did,
he just couldn't show it like this,
she didn't listen.

She was at his apartment,
told him that morning
she just wasn't in the mood today,
she shifted inside herself
as he kissed her neck
the same way he had
hundreds of times before,
forced a laugh as she said
"I really don't want to,"
he didn't listen.

She was sitting on his couch
when he put his arm around her,
unwrapped herself from him,
he told her to
"just relax,"
became comfortable in a body
he was never invited into,
she got away,
called her brother from the next street over,
explained to him from the passenger seat
that she had said no,
he didn't listen.

I told myself I wouldn't write another **** poem
because I had convinced myself it wouldn't happen again,
had convinced myself that
my friends and family
were not a part of the statistic,

but every sobbing phone call
or hushed condolence
reminds me that
this happens every day,
that pretending **** culture does not exist
will not make it go away,
that 20% of human beings
in the United States
will be ***** in their lifetime,
that 20% of the people I love
will be ***** in their lifetime.

I keep telling myself
I will not write another **** poem,

keep reminding myself
to look at the facts.
Next page