Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sarah Jan 16
If you put a flower in a cup of dyed water
The pigment passes through its veins
Up the stem and through the leaves
Into the petals
And it stays there forever
There is no running from it
It sticks forever within the cells of the rose
Reminding it of it's impurity
Comapred to those who lived in a natural soil
That rose is me
And the brothel is my dyed cup
There is no escaping my stains
This poem is narrated by a ******* who was forced into this life style, explaining to a man that even if she repented, she can't escape her destiny
Scott G Dec 2018
The truth is I’m not a good person
The truth is that I tell lies
The truth is that I have bad thoughts
The truth is that I am sinful through and through.

What are you?
In the delusion of, “I’m not that bad of a person?”
When you too, hate
You too lie
You too have bad thoughts

Perhaps you cheat
You’d never be bad
You’d never have an impure thought
You’d never think less of others

I am dark hearted
So are you
I deceive others
So do you
I will cut corners when I can
Sound like you?

Perhaps you are perfect
Let’s say you never do wrong
Perhaps you’ve never slandered another

Liar
Jane Dec 2018
Dust, in the air
unseen impurity.

The spectrum of humanity, good and bad.
Black and white.

Being submerged in the black feels unnatural, unlike me.

I'm calling on my star for something unattainable,
unused,
pushed under the carpet.

It's presence sparkled when I saw a child laughing at the sky.  

Innocence.

To wear blue, and feel serene,
To wear yellow, and feel joy,
To wear pink, and feel love,
To wear purple, and feel life.

I used to wear Innocence.

I dress differently now,

I wear emerald green, and feel anxious,
I wear a cloudy grey, and feel impersonal.
I wear stained white, and feel everything
I wear only black, and feel nothing.

I wear sin now.

I'm all the things I once wished upon a star not to be.
Viseract Jun 2016
Blossoming
Red ink through clear water
Drifting
Sinking
Tendrils, wisps

Red ink spreading
Filling
Water no longer clear
Fingers stained with impurity
Clutching
Screaming

Isn't it a sin to cut?
just something I thought of off the top of my head. Picture it, if you want/can
F Tagayun Apr 2016
Little Mistress of Disguise
She runs and runs and always hides
When she talks, she tells you lies
She never looks you in the eyes

You never know what lies within
It may be pure, it may be sin
She might be looking through that door
She might be listening through the floor

Little Mistress of Disguise
O, how she says such pretty lies!
Pretty lies about the world
Pretty lies to all she's told

Through this let you listen be
A person of pure honesty
Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry
Is never good in redundancy
Not if you can do it right
Do it right in every plight
Do it right and then you'll see
The truth behind her mystery
Written about a year ago. This poem is meant to awaken those being subjected to deception, to open their eyes and make them warier of their interactions. FZT
Sean Flaherty Oct 2015
So maybe I got riled up, and thought he was trying to steal my ****.

I don't work at Stop & Shop anymore, but I still
almost cried at those dogs,
on television.
The world is an impure place, but in times of trouble, you can always double your dose.

Trouble us. Forever.

As low, in your clever-minded excuses, to get out of your
parents' disapproval.
I bought so many
hallucinations, that I'm debating a few more.

Hope I remember writing these words. Scary to consider,
but there, nonetheless. The world is
melting into all sorts.
Colors, that I love.

Hope I remember writing these words, and the light,
reflecting off the ink,
in rainbows of black. The
ash, an impossibly-unforeseen consequence,
of the cigarette. The
cancer is laughed off. And you had forgotten my name.

Cutting up the canvas, she called it, "blood," even though, by a trained-eye, it lacked.  
Any tactic will take flight.
Take care to catch yourself when your wax melts onto your owned face.
Not your practiced one.
Peter Watkins Mar 2015
What a lie,
what a fallacy,
you can't deny,
you're not perfect and you never will be.
But I wouldn't want you any other way,
if you were perfect, I wouldn't want you to stay.

We're Human, the two of us,
every last person has mistakes.
Those who say "I'm pure!" are fake.
Or they haven't sullied their perfection just yet.
I want you to know, you don't have to pretend.
We're all cruel and awful and sick in the end.

Because again, we're only Human.
If you can admit it you're half way there.
Purity's a lie and it doesn't make you more fair.
But look at you, listen to you, you're great as you are.
We argue, so what? It's simply Human.
I still like you and I don't hate you for such a reason.

Because I'm only the same as you,
they're only the same as me
and all in this transient virtue,
that they won't hurt us or anybody.
We might all swear it as things are now
but who knows where we'll be and what excuse we'll throw.

What your friends say to you, to me, that's true.
But then you look at what they say
and then what they actually go and do.
They didn't mean it but loyal they failed to stay.
I simply use this as a point and I want to stress,
there's no one I condemn for a reason like this.

I love it, that's why I don't hate them.
It's not just the betrayal I love either.
The ugliness, the hatred, the lies; building an ultimatum.
Teaching me I'm not the only human, not the only failure.
Because there's no perfection amongst our ranks.
It's that which makes us beautiful, special and without thanks.
I've written a poem similar to this but the message is important enough for multiple mentions.
Hollow Aug 2014
Only the open sky
Could take my wings
Mold them into essences of purity

I was forged within
Rapid rivers of forsaken modesty
Left alone and sore below
Because my insecurities undressed me
And bedded me savagely
Before the watchful eye of the moon
The minds glowing aphrodisiac

As feathered hate falls from blackened flight
A finger is raised in denial of sunlight
A symbol of woebegone sensuality
Amaranthine Jun 2014
Ah, but you know naught
Of the traipse of indignity
Ever so staggered in advance
By the chafe of love and ****

Oh to wander amidst
These crowds of judging eyes
Known by the happenings of a night
After a sip (or two) of wine

— The End —