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Arisa Mar 2
An insect.
That crawls upon my body, except I can't quickly swat it away
Without causing attention to myself
and everyone noticing that my
white ******* are pulled
all the way down
to my ankles.

My lips are dry so I bite them.
Knuckles whitening while I hold onto the grip-strap
And I hear his heavy breathing against my neck.
I look at the tunnels, quickly passing by.
'Maybe this will end fast too?'

Naive of me to think so.

Sliding into my flower
Like a toxic, little aphid.
Stuck on my sticky leaves
As petals are parted and

I pour out of the open doors in Shinjuku station,
And run out, wiping a tear on my sleeve.
I tug up my decency
While I run to the ticket booth.
Angry foreigner was yelling at the old man who sits within.
The clock above strikes eight.
I decide that it's not worth it.
I won't tell anyone.
It doesn't matter.
Could be worse.
It's okay.
I'm okay.







I wasn't okay.
I recall a time where I was molested by a pervert in the trains of Tokyo when I was in middle school.
Ann Marie Peña Sep 2018
I fell disgusted as I fell a hand on my buttons.
In my town, this is no strange.
But today was different because the hand in my private place wasn't a big one but a small innocent hand of a 10-year-old smiling at me while still touching me.
And trust me, that touch was not in a childish way.
Sadly is not the first time that happens.
Tristan Taylor Mar 2018
She wasn't a girl
She wasn't yet a woman
At least in her mind
She still stayed in her parents house
At that time

One day she got a taste of it
Of how it is
She was innocent yet pretty
Got looks all over the city
But she didn't suffer from stupidity

She was walking past two guys
On the beach
One was relatively handsome
He caught her eye
But he was looking at her exposed thighs

The other was reading a book on a bench
As he looked down, he looked older
He looked as if he had a thirst to quench
He looked at her body, licking his lips
"I can show you something, sugar ****"

She was no girl
She was officially a nubile woman
In her mind
She got back to her parents' house
While she still had time.
A poem about a very pretty girl that is *******.
Dovey Oct 2017
Watch them, throats slashed to raw bits
Outcasts, the lot of them, in groups so lonely


Drinking our own mothers' amniotic fluids
and crying out "you should've aborted me"

She bragged about eating a fetus, and I flinched
as she bared teeth stuck with tendon strings

and he on the outside showed of a tongue
which had tasted her ******, of all things



Look at them;
Hands stained with their own ***** and blood
Laughingly showing off the latest cut
Where's the poetic beauty of immortal youth?
Warped ******* is what we amount to, in truth
Perhaps I'm being a bit too cynical about it?
Rae Slager Oct 2017
Your smile
Penetrates my eyes
And pervades my stubborn lips
Seema Sep 2017
...so he said
You are the jewel in the crown
Skin so smooth, almond like brown
Teeth white as the winter snow
To you my princess, I kneel to bow

...and she replied**
If I am the jewel in the crown
I belong to a King not you clown
If my skin is smooth and brown
Why do you wag your tail around?
If my teeth is white like snow
So what! Why can't you understand my 'No'
Calling me a princess and bowing is fine
But if you try crossing your flirting line
My slap will turn your face red to shine!
Don't bother me, spoilt creatures,
Else you'll be counting your infinite stitches!
Move away, I am not here for roadside speeches
Else you'll be pushed in the ***** pool of leeches...BEHIND YOU!


©sim
Fun write
Francie Lynch Jul 2017
Call us perverted,
But read on first,
Then, by the end,
After our verse,
Call us your worst:
***** old men, gutter snipes,
Lecherous gawkers,

Cause we gaze in wonder and awe
At girls from eighteen to ninety-five.
Don't step back and feign aghast,
Whisper covert tsks, and gasp,
What? Oh such ***** old men!
But we are most the same.

We don't ogle or use a scope
Waiting behind a bush at night,
Til the lights go on
Through windows known to be undrawn.

We don't visit public pools
With goggles and a snorkel,
That's just sick, that's not us,
Our admiration's not so twisted,
We grew up to respect the sisters.

We wonder at the parade of beauty,
So pleasing to our eyes,
They dress to allure
Younger looks,
They swagger, tilt and sashay past
With legs as long as trees,
No VPL to interrupt
The curving imagination.
Compare it to one window-shopping,
Admiring wares and worth;
But please, read every line I wrote
Before bellowing, Pervert.

If we were eighteen years again,
We're lads out plowing fields,
Sowing wild grains,
Reaping refrains of They're boys just being boys.

We had our ancient pleasures,
Still comparable to now;
The lushness of the ripened fruit
Hanging on the bough,
Is for younger hands, not ours.

The columned temples of runway models
With flying buttress thighs,
And the bull-frog fronts and volleyball stunts
Please, but we don't pry.

          (We're not a ***** grabbing lot,
          That's not how we usually talk,
          In fact I haven't shared these thoughts,
          I'm reluctant to do so now).

You know you can't blame us
For what a blind man sees;
The cleavage, high-slits and commando style,
The augmentations meant to beguile
Has caught us in crossfire.

The soft unbleached skin,
The ***** and the neck,
The falling, twirling tresses,
Grace the backs of backless dresses.
Wear grotesques to dissuade us,
To disapprove our ageless looks.

Our eyes don't linger on the bust,
We don't display old men's lust,
In fact we're rather obsequious,
To the point where we're air,
You'd not notice that we're there.
But we are, and we look;
And I remember what it took
To be young and on the hunt
For the Yeti, Loch Ness, or alien jump.

Don't tell your friends we're perverted,
Scurrilous id-focused men;
We're neither. We're average fellows
Watching from the stands.

Yes, our daughters are older than
The babes seen on the screens,
But that has naught to do with us,
We still think like eighteen.

We watch re-runs of Mary Tyler Moore,
Drink tepid tea with toast and jam
To the credits of The Golden Girls;
But when the grandkids come to visit,
We take them for ice-cream,
Or if I take poodle to walk,
They pool like thirsty fleas.
It isn't my intent to bait, but I have eyes to see,
Those girls somewhat eighteen,
Like to please by teasing:
     I really like your wire rims.
Their eyes grip, the wind flips,
Their hands soft and supple...
I'm at a loss-
What's a man to do-
Between forty and forever?

This reaper's aged,
The harvest's in.
The grain that bowed the straw
Has now been threshed,
And milled to flour.
Add heat to rise again.
Apology for aging men
VPL: Visible ***** line.
grotesques: gargoyles that don't spit water
acacia Dec 2016
How many girls was it?
Was it three or five?
I told my friends that it was at a party:
no love, no chemistry.
Just touching, just tugging.
But was that the truth unveiled
or was I just scared?
I’m glowing and basking in a power
given by daydreams of disrobed
bodies and ornaments dangling
from tassels.
It’s only the *******
who think like that.
It’s only the cool guys who touch
those chicks and who
kiss those chicks and who
**** those chicks.
Perverted and irrational thinking,
angry drunk violence,
the high substance in my blood.
My father said I would never be a man,
if I never had a taste.
My father said I would never be a man
if I never stroked inside.
But did my mother raise me this way?
Nice guys, they finish last.
Bad guys, they come in first.
Red lipstick, black nail polish,
long hair in my hand, gripping sides
and the pounding of our bodies
that are constantly colliding.
But should I really do this?
Is this for fame and for my reputation?
The dirtiest temptation,
the douchiest thing I could ever be.
This male doesn't want to be seen as a loser for not having *** with a lot of girls and for not taking the chance to have ***. He forces himself to think these things and to see women as objects when he knows how he shouldn't.
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