My body is not yours to bruise with your ***** viscous words and hands that carry layers and layers of my dried up blood,
You have no right to touch my sanctuary of a body the way that you do nor do you have any right to penetrate my mind with your poisonous venom that drips from your lips like a torrential rain,
You do not have a say in what I choose to cloth my body of which I perceive with disgust no less, no more,
I shall dress my inane skin in beautiful markings not to appear different to society as you say but to be the alluring being I wish to be,
I wish for a freedom you do not provide me with,
I wish for a day where you do not persecute me for my dark desolate wandering soul for I cannot control who I am meant to be although I have tried to change my self perception for your cold, conceited statue,
Oh you do what you do so well saying what you say so drolly,
I do comprehend my pitiful soul as pitiful of course but with your pesky whispering leaving me whimpering in the dirt and space of empty nothingness,
Oh how I am such an immaculate nothingness,
A swing here, a blow there,
There goes my dented shuffle, my cardinal dropping to the stiff brute ground,
I suppose my fear is amusing to say the least,
You drink it all up as it seeps out of me as if it were my dark red blood,
Oh how you must love its bitter taste for you beg for it every destructing moment you desire with an insatiable fire,
My need for peace is oh so dire, so dire,
I soak in the fear that my death is imminent,
That it is near,
Perhaps waiting just around the corner of the road,
Waiting oh so patiently to pounce out at me,
With such delightful grinning glee,
Maybe I shall meet death in an hour, perhaps our rendezvous will take place on Monday, perhaps it shall be when I am old and creased all over,
Whenever it is I know you shall not feel an inkling of compassion or penance and I think one day I will be alright with that.
An anonymous girl ©

In the fairy tale, Aimee was bad at heart,
a pretty shell that promised a pearl and
when cracked open, gave grains of sand
instead. It scratched the surface of the eyes
and misled; Aimee was just one of those pretty
Jezebels, cruel within, decorated without.
Her sister Aurore was the heroine,
a fatalist, who sighed her philosophy:
'What will be will be' and her patience and
good heart tugged her towards the coincidences
that always favour the light.
But Aimee was driven away by her own wickedness,
and had not the luck of the good.
All Aimee had was the face.

These are the kind of stories I am tired of because
I want to tell you that when Aimee was just a
small girl, she sat and watched her mother scrutinise
her appearance in the mirror. She watched as she
painted her face and knew then that she was just a painted
beauty, a kind that easily peels off. How little it
mattered though, as her mother smiled at her jewels.
Painted or true, her mother had succeeded through
beauty. So Aimee saw no good in the kind and the patient,
who suffered and accepted their suffering. She chose an
ambition called wickedness and she wore it like a petticoat
beneath the blue ballgown. Aimee was the kind of girl
to get what she wanted. Her mother had taught her
that her face was the only kind of fatalism she could follow.

I am tired of these fairy tales that give undefined shapes.
I'm tired of the dichotomy between the good and the bad.
I'm bored of the light always finding their happily ever after.
Just tell me the story of the dark and tell it properly.

There are some very well meaning ladies
Who hang out by my local shops
Their aim in life is to rescue
They chatter away nonstop
Clutching their Bibles tightly
Their gaze is quite unnerving
They stop me fairly regularly
I clearly look like I need saving
For religion I have no objection
But choose myself not to live
My life caught up in this practice
So I approach feeling pensive
Eyes cast down as so to avoid
These women in twin sets and pearls
I skirt round the edge of their circle
My body beginning to curl
But alas I was too slow
And squarely in my path
Stood a force to be reckoned with
I thought her brave to risk my wrath
She said ..."Take God into your heart
he'll keep you out of strife
I know that he can help you
find what you want from life?!"
"Well Thank you very much "
I said with a smile not unkind
"But I already know
I just need to unwind
From life I want a bass line
Throbbing in its sound
And a **** load of tequila
To get my evening off the ground
And perhaps a line or two
Of something to uplift
My mood and my spirit
(I think you get my drift!)
But mostly what I'm after is
A bit of bump & grind
And now I'm going shopping
I hope that you don't mind"
And so I stepped around her
Continued calmly on my way
I left her to explain
Exactly what it was I'd had to say
A few days later I returned
They were there again
I was not alone this time
With me, my son Ben
I held my head up high
Walked swiftly to the door
Surely they'd not stop me
After what I'd said before
I was wrong - but it wasn't me
That they had in their sights
With such an dreadful mother  
They thought they'd show my boy the light
The same one as before
Got down upon her knees
Put her face in his face
And as I began to seethe
She took his hand in her hand
So I could not run
"Do you believe in Jesus?
Do you love him son?"
He looked at her then looked at me
Then proved that he was mine
"I love Minecraft" he said sweetly
"But mummy just loves wine!"
Now
If you choose to live your life
With God as your Saviour
I think that's great - but
Please do me a favour
Don't force feed your opinion
While I go about my day
Or I'll feel compelled to give you mine
And you might not like what I've got to say!!

(C) Pixievic


https://soundcloud.com/vicki-ayers/divine-negativity-written

Sleeping dogs are kicked
just to hear them bark
we stare at the sun
and stay in the dark

the dead men tell tales
and we make our horses drink
a rolling stone gathers moss
and **** doesn't stink

we are better sorry than safe
the sword is mightier than the pen
practice never makes perfect
it's all just pretend

two wrongs make a right
never is better than late
we don't see our own sight
we are what we hate

we look gift horses in the mouth
while birds of a feather peck each others eyes out

I need you the way the skin needs a knife
Cutting away the dead and exposing the new
Such raw painful feelings
Such addicted needings
I want you like the page needs the pen
Spilling your dreams into my pulp
Feeding my pulse with your love
I'm just the face of a clock without hands
In each moment I spend without you
No use or no purpose
I'm dying for the cut of your kiss
Break the skin of my neck with your teeth
Expose all the lust and dreams hiding beneath
I'm aching for a drop of your heart
To absorb your light and your hopes
To be sweetly bleesed on the high of your touch
I need your hands on my face
Wipe away this dusty deaperation of tears
Give my life reason and heart hope
With your love

A stolen glance a
Playful wink
Love eternal sworn in ink
Teacher confiscates the letters
Forced to read
Out loud
Beautiful sonnets that would
Make Shakespeare proud

Her curvaceous **** was bootylicious and  fit,
Yet she was desperate for a 'Brazilian **** lift'
The bootiologist was quite well versed,
Still, the procedure proved to be accursed,
The Kim Kadarshian inspired quest, bore only a small fruit.