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Àŧùl Jun 2017
It's child abuse in the Afghani style,
Men get hold of little boys to play,
They fiddle with the kids' flies,
Dig their fingers deep inside,
Get hold of the miniature tools,
Twiddle them till they just urinate.

And then the kids are addicted,
They keep repeating it by themselves,
It is not exclusive to the Afghanis,
Even some Indians often do it,
I know because even I was a victim.

Now I protect every other kid.
Male ******* is a lot of time wasted.
And it's very addictive if exposed to at a very young age.
I was hardly aged 10 at that time.

My HP Poem #1585
©Atul Kaushal
Shaniqua Johnson Mar 2017
Life wiped from the surface, to become no more.
Eyes gentle and shut.
Shallow breaths have all but stopped.
Eyes still gentle and shut.
Hands still, with no hope of moving.
Eyes gentle and shut.
Legs side by side each other stationary and immobile.
Eyes still gentle and shut.
Wine-coloured liquid pools around him. A toast to the life beyond.
Eyes bolted closed, to never be opened.
His eyes remain gentle and shut.
This is one of the poems taken from my Creative Writing portfolio 'Time is of the essence'
Àŧùl Feb 2017
Coming to the reunion party,
You look drop dead gorgeous,
Shoulderless you gyrate now,
Your gown looks so golden,
Every man is with their wife,
Still, no one looks at his own,
And everyone wants to feel you.

I observe them adjusting pants,
Stealing looks at you frequently,
Few have their mouths open,
For the past fifteen minutes,
I grow slightly insecure,
For you are so beautiful,
My lovely gorgeous wife.

Now the alpha male comes,
I was not ready for him,
He asks your hand for dance,
You agree after looking at me,
Then I see you dancing with him,
He pulls you close to himself,
You soon excuse yourself.
Such short love story parts
My HP Poem #1443
©Atul Kaushal
Megan VanKo Oct 2016
Sometimes quiet is violent
When the one who would fill it
Is no longer around
And you're left wondering
What to do now
But you know there isn't anything that you can do
Because now that he's gone
You can't really find it in you
To do much of anything
So you sit there and hope
That somebody notices
So that they can help fix
The silence that is hovering over you
Like death waiting to strike
Maybe somebody will be your light
Like he was
Before he left
Julie Grenness Aug 2016
Is there a humour therapist in the house?
Sitting here, chortling, do not grouse,
If you abuse crumpets, men,
You undermine your own best interests, do you ken?
Then you don't get crumpet, men,
Or is men a rude word,
You're reaping what you earn,
You want a cup of tea from me?
Chortle, the magic word is please!
You would not believe this ham,
Feeding the world this spam,
You want fresh vegetables?
Frozen food, not dementiable,
You can get another better than me,
So what's wrong with you, prithee?
Yes, the catering staff is on a sitdown strike,
You'd best find yourself a loving wife,
Chortle, shut up snivelling, you grouse,
Is there a humour therapist in the house?
Feedback welcome.
Veronica Jul 2016
He's looking for help and he's not strong enough to pull himself up from the surface, no one can help him, not even me.
He cries in the night tears of pain
His heart filled with so much grief, he fears he might go insane.
He tries to see a way he can keep going on, but he tries in vain.
"Help me. I'm hurting." He desperately tries to explain.
But nobody hears him as he sobs in the rain.
Now he lays there, cold as ice, with his own hands slain.
Suicide awareness I always see females being depicted as having depression but I know males have it too.
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