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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
Sienna Dec 2018
There’s a woman in the streetlight surrounded by reddish dark
Her body feeling numb, her body feeling stark
As she waits for a man to come and leave his mark
No father or dreams nothing to believe
Sold into this life, her mom is the enemy
And her tears and body are its currency
No point to beg or plead
The lonely men are satisfied when she bleeds
She gives them all and everything
But they continue to feed
Some get careless and leave her to breed
A baby on the way but the world it’ll never see
As the red on her legs triggers tears to the sink
Again she starts the cycle
Smoking a cigarette, sitting under the light pole
Dreading the next man to take her to bed
Knowing sooner or later she’d be left for dead
But the feeling won’t register anymore
As mommy had done this to her
Mommy had made her a *****
And now she’s only wanted nothing more
Then to go to a home and open a door
Without fear of being pushed to the floor
While her body is seen as just another lure
She never asked for this or the ***** kiss
Never wanted to feel it forced in
As her body grows tired and gets fragile and thin
Wishing again and again for a better life as another tear rolls off her chin
And joins the others in the puddle of unwanted sin.
Dea Elizabeth Nov 2018
**** this ******
******* massive
country of ours.
This desolate land
God forsaken.
My skin is too soft,
My heart is too weak
to be dragged up and down coasts
Chasings stories and heartache.
A mail-order bride,
A ******* for love,
the mouse
who ran to the
Sara Kellie Oct 2018
We're not all chicken heads Sister.
Just a piece of **** meat
to another ******' Mister.
I wear my knickers with pride
and not now, not ever,
will I have hide.
I'll walk tall in my heels
and not under red.
I sleep kissed in satin,
not prepared to give head.

So if you want some excitement
in your life,
drive back home Sweetie,
make up with your Wife.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Suhas Sep 2018
A teacher is honored
adored and idolized,
A doctor considered almighty
and worshiped into.

An engineer portrayed
as the pillars of future,
A bureaucrat painted
like a messenger from above.

But little does the world know
the truth of the twilight,
everyone coming here for services
under the low lit alleys.

Alleys that are always looked below
ironically are the alleys of forbidden pleasure,
all i am is just another soul
working to feed her kind

Abused shamed and discriminated
forced to bear an illicit fruit
only to realize she shares the same plight as mine
and yet i put on a smile to serve every night

only to pave a different path, a path
abiding the "NORMS" of society.
writer omsy Sep 2018
She works all day and night
Even if it is wrong or right
She races to the sky,
Until her child can fly

All of the pain nailed to her head
Just so she would collapse down
On her knees, for some bread
Trying hard, not to drown
Terry Collett May 2018
She took him
up to her flat
and that was that.

She'd been
on the game
for some years
and it paid the rent
and the fix
and the whole of living
box of tricks.

But he was not
the usual punter
the quick have a go
and leave type
but the sort of
took his time
and needed help
and sat talked
of his woes
about his dead wife
and his son
who was of those.

After all was done
and he'd had his fun
or so it seemed
he paid her
what he owed
and left and sadly
looking left not right
got knocked down
and killed on the road.

So she'll not take him
up to her flat again
nor hear his woes
nor wait for his love
making to start
nor get
the good money
he paid for his little talk
and chance to get laid.
I am
but a
****** that
kicks into
flight for
my sugar
on the
plane that
shimmy mine
trim on
wings then
flew with
someone new
on this
bare runway
ready in
situ again
A man of Nottingham
Maira Apr 2018
Dance to the cheering of men
Show yourself and dance, Dear Gwen.
They pry on you but that's alright,
You'll serve three for tonight
Take it light

One at a time, do not rush
With two hands and a mouth, pure cold cash
You get your pay, they get their pleasure
With a body as if porcelain like yours
Women have no pressure

Your price is high so let no customer down
Satisfy and obey, smile never frown
Dance gwen 'till the sun arises
Until then, you're trapped in your own darkness
Poor gwen, used to satisfy moree than less

Take a quick sip, this liqour has its magic
Makes you brave, night less tragic
It's the moon again, the spotlight is on
The room is dim but the eyes are dawned

Dance Gwen, dance 'till dawn
Dance to the cheering of men
The less you wear, the more you gain
Dance Gwen, Dance until you're worn
Worn out, keep your thorns.
Nihit Bhatia Apr 2018
I aimlessly keep starring at the stars,
Every night hoping they would perform,
Some sort of magic to make me escape,
From this life that I go born into,
My generations have been serving men,
Satisfying their **** all night,
But none of those men have ever,
Satisfied our **** for a peaceful sleep,
I too like my mother,
Followed her footsteps into this trade,
And my daughter would also fall in here,
Is this what we are,
Going to do all our lives?
Releasing the heat of others into us,
Is this not classified as a sin,
In the book of gods?
Where one body is gratified and,
The other is buried without even dying,
I just keep looking at the broken ceiling,
Eyes wide open and lying like a mortal,
While the customer is performing,
Now I have also lost count of how many men,
Quenched their inner thirst with me,
I am dead inside, I am dead outside,
Yet I still do not understand,
Why does the moon still come looking for me.
Just have attempted to describe a *******'s plea of sadness in this poem.
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