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You get the shovel
I’ll dig the hole
we’ll bury her together
off to heaven I suppose
or wherever dogs go
you go and grieve
I’ll let the little one know
in a little bit
just expect company
RIP June 9/19/2018
My thoughts float.
Like a stray balloon
wind swept from a child’s hand.

Once tied to my
rope burned wrist.
But removed by life
ever so swift.

I hope for just
a bit more time.
That thought I had
now gone from my mind.

My thoughts float.
Like a stray balloon
wind swept from a child’s hand.
Cherish your thoughts
Furey 1d
I knew this was coming
I knew one day I would have to face my fear
A little girl
No more than six
She is the one who told
I didn’t have as much courage at the age of twelve
She picked you out of a line of people
She let them know what you’d done
How you had asked
‘Are you a boy or a girl?’
‘Could I be your friend?’
You only targeted the lonely
That was your M.O
I was always alone
I must have been an easy target
You were so nice
They had been looking for a man
While you hid in the shadows
I cried when I heard they had caught you
Now I have been asked to testify
I will if only to save more from the same
I had nightmares
You haunted me more than anyone else
I was terrified as a kid
Now I’m all grown up
I have the chance to tell others about you
I hope you rot
My parents say I shouldn’t hate
Hate is a strong word
But you took my childhood
Like him you are a monster in my eyes
In many others you are a monster
We will never be scared
Of you
Of your threats
Never again
If i am born again

As a girl

I would Christen me

As Jere

Without going to the nursery classes

I would fib that I've fever

and would apply collerium in my eyes

the whole day

When I walk through

The city with my doll

Close to my bosom

With a solemn look

I would peep in to

The camera eyes

Which would revolve

Around me.

Then also,

My best friend

Would be my mirror

In which I often look


I would take to myself

Pretending as grandmothers

Talking to themselves

You can write anything

Miss Web World beautiful or

A pretty girl in Webbannor ( the land of Web ) anything.


You must not

Alter my name


It's my prayer


It's my life breath

It is the tumult of ecstacy

That iam the only one

Belongs to me.

The slogan of living.

Jere Jere Jere Jere Jere

Jere Jere Jere Jere Jere jere jere

Jere Jere Jere Jere Jere

Iam going to sleep

In sleep also chanting it only.

In sleep also

I fear some people.

Kuzhur Wilson
Translated  to English Roopa Panath
Dairy notes of Miss Web World beauty Jere on an ordinary day
Kuzhur Wilson / Translated  to English Roopa Panath
Andrew Oct 2017
A child wanders the hall before school starts
The emptiness and loneliness are his education
New children enter the school
As they exit the bus
Light shines on the school
As it exits the Sun
Yet the wandering child's eyes must adjust
To colors he's starting to see
Colors like jealousy and frustration
The wandering child is powerless to the explosive light
And searches for ways to extinguish it
He finds his solution in the room where we keep our guns
The room sits in the dark center of the building
Across the hall from where we keep our children

Kids have been playing with guns for a while now
Everyone my age that I know
Imagined shooting up their school
These are well adjusted people
It's just the times we live in
And what it takes to adjust

There are some things that will remain true
Killing is wrong
And murdering a murderer is murder
The executioner hides his face in shame
He's ashamed of the enjoyment he feels
From the power he holds over other people's lives
Unaware the power he holds
Is meant to come from love
Love that has been buried
For the temporary thrill of death

It seems like a dark joke
Giving a child a gun
And then asking them to go through high school
Because kids are fucking stupid
And some people never grow up
And high school never ends

The wandering child takes his newly found arsenal
To the densely populated cafeteria
Only to realize the other children are just as well armed
They drown in tension
When their actions have megaton weight
Before anyone can say anything
Everyone starts shooting
They grade each other in their minds
And their test comes at the end of the barrel
They find validation
In blood splattered on the wall
And bodies that once stood now lying
The gunshots deafened the wandering child
And the smoke blinded him
Reminiscent of the emptiness and loneliness before school started
This was his education

Today I watched a bunch of ants eating one another
Their ant hill collapsed as rain started pouring
Yet they continued killing each other as they drowned
They all seemed to be the same size
But their problems seemed so much bigger
So they found comfort in killing one another instead
Some people hate children
They seem too loud and too sensitive
Others have talents
They still have enough childish feeling left in them to identify
To find what they are feeling in their hearts
And voice the opposite
Girl with the blue coat.
'Suicide,' they said.
The Friday of May. Now for sale: Blue coat, not worn since May.
Inspired by Hemingway’s Baby shoes six word story: For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
if you go out over the moor
and around the back of the hill
there's a church standing behind it
silent and still

the church is home to no creature
no bat or bird
makes its nest there
no sound to be heard

but despite the eerie silence
the ceiling that goes up and up and up
it's a restful place
with glass faces watching from above

i like to sit there on the skeleton pews
alone and unafraid
lady mary watches me
sings me lullabies shes made

and i hum them back to her
even when she leaves
sometimes i watch her baby
as i sweep out the in blown leaves

saint peter tells me stories
from his place upon the wall
and sometimes he weaves intricate tales
together with saint paul

once i thought i saw a priest here
and he patted me on the head
told me i was a good child
to be caring for the long dead

the graveyard out the back
is often in disrepair
so sometimes i bring flowers
to those who lie there

and sometimes i like to lean
against this one mossed over gravestone
so that i can whisper to the ghosts
and listen to them complaining that their church is overgrown

and often i like to sit at the entrance
it makes me feel oddly bereft
i feel like sitting here forever
its been a while since i left
"they say some kid collapsed just outside those ruins a few days ago, yknow the ones out on the moor? they think the mite was tryin to take shelter, poor kid never made it"
(contains references to sensitive issues)

She’s just a babe
he’s only two
of youth refill
they’re broken in

but leave no mark  
so they're unspoiled
for clients booked
it's all arranged

no tracks you'll leave
their brain's not through
not til they’re three
so chill out dame

the program works
divert impel
‘'you crazy sh-t
here take this pill’

nobody hears
if told some tales
but they won't talk
their lips are sealed

from dot they’re trained
they’re here for us
don't have to guess
‘you talk, you die!’

so pay the fee
their price is high
and bring this dog
they’ll do it all

and shouldn’t you
take all you're due
you work real hard-
on nectar sup
Stop! Not so quick
for veils can lift
and imprints made
don’t ever die

archival facts
reveal themselves
when day arrives
you’ll face the Judge

and when you breach
a petal new
it injures both
and gear stick shifts

you've soiled life's bed
with squalid stains
now own the Sh-t
says mirror man


             
From time to time an instance comes to light involving well-organized abuse at an almost unimaginable level.  Children from a very young age are trained to provide all manner of sexual services to meet the demands of deviant and sadistic clients.  Contrary to what people may think, this happens not just in so-called 'third-world countries,' but in more prosperous lands too.  

Even where there is significant corroboration for the veracity of such accounts, survivors can suffer the further indignity of not being believed.  There is some movement and improvement in knowledge but more needs to be acknowledged and understood, not only by colleagues and other professionals providing care, but society at large.  

It all makes one ponder what leads a perpetrator to act this way.  Whilst it helps to understand some act out trauma they themselves received, it is unacceptable behaviour, is still a criminal offence - and it hurts others.   We all have choice to decide ahead what we would do if offered an easy way to cross that line.  Decency requires we resolve to remember who we want to be in essence and retain this reality check:  how would I feel if this was my wife, my child?   Refuse to abuse another.  

Some boundaries simply should never be breached, even if one is promised immunity from repercussions, e.g. told 'the child won't remember – it won’t hurt them.'   Many victims do remember and either way, such incursions rob them of a normal life, something many take for granted.  The truth is they are massively, negatively affected on one level or another, often in multiple ways, at whatever age such incursions take place.  

The reality is that transgressing on another's boundaries on any level not only harms the recipient but also those violating others.  It alters and destroys something in the offender, immediately recognizable or not, and by extension the wider community is affected.  

On looking in the mirror an offender may see at best a deluded half-life.  As my poem concludes, who would want to be meeting that inner witness to their corrupt and heartless behaviour, their real character looking back at them through the 'man* in the mirror...'

*(either gender can offend - some women sexually abuse too.  When a perpetrator takes a good look in the mirror of reality, they may well find themselves  confronted with the enormity of what they have done, and who they have become)
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