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Maybe I'm the dark brown eyes you stare into
The ones you see your reflection in

Maybe I'm the hand combing through your jet black hair
Or the voice in the wind on an empty rooftop bar

Maybe I'm the brain you treat lesser than yours
Or the body in the room that tells you that you're not alone

Maybe I'm the throbbing **** you leave red Mac lipstick stains on
Or the stern screams that remind you of your father

Maybe I'm the lips touching your left cheek
Or the fingers that fix your nose ring

Who am I if not for all the times I've been cheated on?
Why should I be more than a pincushion
For all the times your dad didn't tell you he loved you?
Who would I be to all of you if I weren't
eyes,
hands,
barely a brain,
a ****,
and lips
?
Who am I if not a string of traumas
Walking my way through a path paved with eggshells and broken glass?
Who am I?
I'm back. For now.
Kevin Castro Dec 2019
(in heavy breath)
my eyes take her in
her body lying prone.
her smile, smothered in her pillow.
back arched,
she releases a moan.

(moaning, quite sharply)
my hands stroke with her cadence
staggered gasp
and with a click
i lock my screen
as her moans send me to space.
my own fluids are now
the fluid for stimulus,
for an eye rolling **** numbing high.

but in thirty seconds
i crash.

i am tasting myself now
with desire
with disgust
like raw eggs mixed with salt
like water laced with crushed paracetamol
exactly *** mixed with spit.

i sink into the dark musty scent
of stale air, *** and sweat.

and i awake
and once again
my eyes do hunger
and so does my ****.

Eshu, end your tricks now
it’s not funny anymore.

my gaze ***** everyone it meets.
it strips them bare
of their skin
of their flesh
it turns them into meat.
it grinds a person into produce.

these eyes are battered and harmful.
may they now rest, please?
(ekphrastic poem for Eshu by agnes arellano)
triztessa Oct 2019
We aren't,
after all,
objects
you fit into
the shape of your
wants and needs or
whatever kind of life
you lead us
and you turn me
like a marvel
like a caveman
discovering
this light
and then you switch

I am not the type
I am not the end of the game
I am not the comfort

You seek.
Sarah Michelle Apr 2019
She is organized in a way that is unfathomable,
An alluring contradiction with the eyes of a madwoman
On the body of a laid-back cat.
You try to ****** her but she is everywhere above you
And every night when you meet her
She already has you trapped inside with everyone else
who is propelled by her many solar systems.

You watch her when she appears dormant.
You can try to calculate her patterns,
But since you met her she has worn nine different faces,
And she dresses as too many species to name
Yet you may think she is tame.
This is true, she does less damage than she is capable of,
So test her limits but remember that
The universe has no edge.

She is curved and always expanding.
You can’t decide if she is too fat or just the right size
Because she is shapeless and swimming before your eyes.
Her stars are many but her constellations are uneventful.
She bursts her stars like whiteheads
And swallows herself up in the muddy, black potholes left behind.

Her galaxies overlap too much to be teased apart.
Each sun has its own ideas about gravity
And claims each others’ planets as their own.
This is not a harem though for she is not polyamorous.
Worse, they are tessellating love triangles.

Love for her is like politics only there is only one wing, one branch
And all parts are just a sum of her.
She couldn’t love you even if she wanted to.
There is already too much for her to maintain,
Too much to spread evenly across your small body
And too much for even God to see.

You’re not an astronomer, a telescope is a peep show to you
You lie in your hammock seeking instant gratification, all of her all at once.
Even if she were simply one of those stars
She wouldn’t travel light-years for you.

You think you know her, the brightest star above you,
The one you stare at thinking she is staring at you,
The one who flips her hair like the other girls you like,
Who all share the burden of giving you
The satisfaction of having something to flirt at,
Something glorious to form into feeble prey
With your small, shallow eyes, and which you use to glorify
Your own simple machine of a body.
Rewrite of "an earlier poem called "Somebody Else."
David Hasselblad Mar 2019
**** Toy

Cold, clad, silicone, scraggly straggling down the street,
Twisting, bending, folding to every person they meet,
Shift its face, smile, frown, cry or moan,
Not much bothers the man of silicone,

Wrestle jovially with it till your hearts content,
Till your ego satisfied, strokes your pride,
Small stains on silicone thighs,
It bends back into shape,

Down a crowded street it walks alone,
A friend to be used, whatever for,
Rolling with whatever’s in store,
It weeps alone, as it revs into a roar,

It guesses what it’s like to truly be alive,
Maybe not have to give,
But it has no bone or blood,
Manufactured, reflected social facets of false, foul virtues,

Able to spot a mask,
Complete any given task,
Its whole body is a mask, a tool,
It lives, but it is not alive,

Down a crowded street it walks alone,
End of the day draws near, hollow to the core,
White, bruised bled stains,
It weeps alone and it revs into a roar,

Its lover covers it in kisses,
“This is what it’s like to be in love.”
Its words hollow and pseudo as sin,
The silicone man knows not of authentic feeling,

Only fingered lust that stains synthetic skin,
It has programmed thoughts, cares and worries,
Confident none belong to it,
“What is an ‘I’?” Wailing for identity,

Other then a doll for use,
The **** toy doesn’t see abuse,
Only utilitarian ways to be,
Excuse after excuse not to see,

In misery,
Under guise of pain and woe,
It tries to be alive, confused,
Under god towed sky,

He screeches to the heavens,
“I am I!”
The sky calls back with a clap of angry thunder,
Down an empty street it walks alone,

Alone, alone, it can not desire or condone,
Not much bothers the man of silicone,
Synthetic, eyes, mouth, fingers and ******* sore,
It weeps alone and it revs into a roar...
Marissa Mar 2019
i always wondered why women get “dolled up”
but men “suit up”
women put on layers of makeup and suffocate themselves wearing corsets
to become an object that a man will like to look at and use
but men clean up and dress professionally

it certainly says a lot about our society
the white woman’s 77 cents to the man’s dollar
and even less for the minority women

the media glorifies women of size 00
which is quite literally less than nothing
women are supposed to be so small
that they are less than zero

science tries to define a woman’s purpose as producing children and taking care of the home
but what about the women who are not fertile and live on the streets?

they will always ask a woman “how does she do it all?”
but when was the last time a man was asked the same question
when both of them have a job and a family to balance

men are not expected to assume the subordinate role
because society deems women to be inferior to men
when women continue to outscore men on the SATs and reading tests
but those men will be given the leadership positions the women rightfully deserve

the objectification
the classification
the learned gender roles
the discrimination
all empower the patriarchy

but we can dismantle it
one empowered woman at a time
Louisa Coller Oct 2018
A warm wool neck filled with pins and needles,
rips a volcanic eruption of string from me.
fixing my china is fun to do but
not with a sledgehammer smashing me in pieces.

An golden ornament is once desired,
Only providing blueprints of a destroyed home.
A flower is fair, beautiful but pure
and even there are days we stare more at the thorns.

Necklaces choking a porcelain doll,
with movements which are dead but a creative mind.
Plotting curiously note after note,
I feel like an object and to you I am one.
It's inspired by Sonnets and Canzone's structures - just a little more simplified;
It always irritates me, the feeling of being mad, upset or even stressed out but sometimes we feel that way and it's okay,
yet for some reason people always think if you are level-headed it's surreal to see you angry, upset or even weak at all.
Stop seeing people like objects; We're alive not dead.
charley gwenn Oct 2018
tongue in teeth
eyes shut tight
clothes on in the shower
back from the brink
back from somewhere
a dead friend's childhood home

the lies i tell myself
just so i can get by
become less convincing
every time i tell them
i know all the signs
my tells are obvious
and i know
when my heart's not in it

i am only 25 years old
but already it feels like
my body has lost something
a sense of youthfulness or beauty
that i had when i was 17
and do not have now
that strange men would crave
why can't i feel that way again?
would i even want that again?

the people ive trusted
and who were worthy of that trust
who treated me well and cared for me
have been so few
and never have any of them
shared their hearts with me
the way i wanted to share mine

how can i believe in my own worth
and value as a person
when i believe i am an object
of ****** pleasure
who has no more pleasure to offer?
what value do i have then?
what am i then?
what worth is there to be found
in a doll that is no longer beautiful?

make me clean again, lord
make me whole
make me beautiful
this is why i don't believe in god
if he is real, the ****** abandoned me
like most men do
i have had only my friends and family
and the professional help i could pay for
to save my soul

your mother called me a deadbeat
a criminal and a lowlife
(did she feel the same way about you?)
she said i wasted my youth and my life
that i didn't love you
or i would have tried to save you
from the life you chose
like she tried to

but you never needed saving
from your death, but not your way of life
i was never cut out for it
but i was in it for the wrong reasons
i was trying to hurt myself
in order to feel anything i could
while you were trying to thrive
she'll never understand you
you didn't want salvation from her
you only wanted your mother back

she's a cursed woman
and i wish i understood this
before i let her words cut me so deep
she's drowning in an ocean of grief
and doesn't know how to do anything
but strike everyone else down with blame

i tried my best to change her mind
to turn her heart with my own
i hope you would understand, ginger
it seemed her heart had hardened
turned to stone and shut away
i could not change her at all

i still go to bed with your ghost
i wanted to give you rest
i wanted to protect you
i dont know where this leaves us my friend
some hearts can't be turned
but i will not betray mine
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