One of her earliest memories,
was that of being *****,
that’s right no foreplay in this poem,
right into it like what happened to her when she was torn open,

one of her earliest memories,
was not of flowers or ice cream or curious cats,
just that which was her grandfathers curious fingers,
***** by the very ones who were supposed to protect her,

painful facts of heinous acts do we have to let that linger,
can’t we just get it out into the open I mean it’s even happened to the famous,
just ask The Cranberries’ Dolores O’Riordan,
or Amy Shumer or Lady Gaga or Gabrielle Union or Madonna or Tori Amos,

or Teri Hatcher Kelly McGillis or Queen Latifah or Pamela Anderson,
or Oprah Winfrey or Fran Drescher, or Mo’Nique, AnnaLynne McCord,
or of course Kesha, Jane Fonda or Ashley Graham ****,
and these are just a fraction of the victims because most women don’t even file reports,

but it’s not just women that get ***** it happens to men too,
Tim Roth Scott Weiland R Kelly Billy Holiday to name a few,
also include Cory Feldman of course and DMX Santana & Tyler Perry too,
I mean to be honest I’ve also been touched inappropriately how about you?

Let’s bring our skeletons out of the closet so we can stop the nonsense of these monster’s abuse.

How is **** so common and constant yet the subject completely oppressed,
I guess it’s kinda exactly like what happens to those that are molested and those that ******,
young girls staying silent while screaming inside and taken advantage of by a member of their tribe,,
as the same man that married the woman that breastfed her mom touches her breast,

in other words,
the man who birthed the woman that birthed her is the one that hurts her,
her grandfather’s curious fingers find his granddaughters innocence,
and she’s not sleeping but still she’s squeezing,
her eyes closed like if she tries hard enough he’ll just disappear and evaporate,

as he fulfills his sickening sense by finding her emptiness in the losing of her innocence…

Why do those closest to us cause us the most harm,
why was this girl more comfortable telling me what had happened to her,
than telling her own family about what had happened,
maybe because the trust was gone and the love was lost because they’d betrayed her,

why does the American Dream,
sometimes feel more like a terrible nightmare,

one where you’re dreaming that you’re being attacked,
but you’re paralyzed by fear so as much as you try you can’t scream,
silenced by the violence that’s personally occurring to you,
and you’re trying to pretend you’re asleep but really all you want to do is awake from this dream…

I guess in a way we all feel sick,
because we all have things we still have to admit,
like how suicide is something a lot of us have tried to commit,
how we all feel sick of it all & don’t know the point was to any of this,

see sometimes,
when you’ve been wronged your whole life you lose sight of what right is,
and honestly I feel exactly the same way sometimes,
which is exactly the reason why I took the time to write this,

just to let you know,
that I love you,
and that I hope,
one day you'll escape all abuse,

when we are pure enough to see clearly,
when we’ve redeemed ourselves enough to earn our halos,
when we finally reach the Heavens,
someday sometime someplace somewhere over the rainbow….

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

author of multiple best selling poetry books
https://www.amazon.com/Aaron-La-Lux/e/B00ODPJAOK

I remember how you make me such a disgrace
Those time that you slap me in the face
My heart beat was like a race
When I saw you holding a thick lace
I'm cryin out loud
When the lace touch my body hard
You left me full of wounds
As I cry loud and hits me a broom
What did I do ?
When all I did was to love you
You didn't hear me explain
You just make me feel this pain

Is there ever
A beginning
To anything
Without its end?
Or is there ever
An end
Without its beginning?
Or is it that “if” there
Is a beginning -
Then there must
Be an end?
The invalidity of
These questions
Bear witness to
The feebleness of
My human existence.

But grieve not for me
Ye simple travelers
And fair
Mystic Nymphs.
Instead – go pluck
The roses
And scatter their petals
In thy path.
For God himself
Has done no more
And ye cannot
Be better served
At his fountain
Of riches or
Show a better decorum
Than to bring ye
Rosy smelling feet
To him.

Only when one’s face is
Dressed out in the
Pearls of our tears
Are we sure that
We too are infected.
Tis’ a pity when love
Is stolen for it is
Always good though
Not of much use to
Anyone else.
But the heart is for beating,
Is it not?
There is very little
Else in it.
The scriptures say that
If we are as good as
We are handsome
That heaven shall fill it.
But reading that
Says nothing of its pleasure.

Or is the love one’s
Heart finds
Like the rose?
Once plucked
Its petals thrown
On the ground
Reminding us of
The love that
Was once whole?
If so, those petals
Must somehow
Remember us.
Of course -
That must be it.
They remember us
By the smell
Of our feet.

your touch
makes sparks
f
         l
                         y
and throws away my conclusion.
i can't help loving you
because you are blood.
i can't help hating you
because of your actions.

your embrace
makes me want to
d
             r
      e
                           a
                                                 m
and dance
then roll around in
          l
                 o
                         p
                e
         s

but i can't,
now can i.
your **** love
is making me pay
and forcing me to break
the remaining shatters of my life.





. . .




i know i said i'm not thinking about it.
but how can i not?
it's so appealing.
everything gone in an instant.
so easy.
so simple.
the glass that sticks into my palms disappears,
along with the bruises.
the cuts.
the scars.
i just wish that

**someone would listen.