The way he looked at me,
I could tell.
This man was heartless.
Sadistic as well.
He pulled my hand,
And in the heat
I looked down to see
Bruises on my knees...
He touched himself
when there was blood on my skirt
I copped the hurt..
Then a passerby starts to see
But he turns his head to smile at me.
The same man who once
Ripped my clothes to shreds
His crooked smile,
In the moment I could tell
This man was heartless
Sadistic as well...
This poem is thought to be of a girl and her abusive father... It is not a true story, but is based on events that occur every day in our world.
Left index finger pulling up her chin,
"Submit Love, I'm in control now."
Don't scream, no need to be too loud,
But don't hold it in,
Sigh, moan, release the gulp of your desire.
I come not to tame the beast,
But to **** it off.
And here I was,
In a world where
She fell in love with words
I wasn't even saying.
Every ****** stroke
Led her closer to the inner man,
I was hiding.
Suddenly tranced to a place
where less is too much...
Completed: 26th May 2019
shiny black combat boots grind up
a model's flower
tears stream down her face
I look up and scoff
I am heartless
babies cries make me duck them under water
it is not me but a survival mechanism
escapism will be the death of me
but death is merely a pause in the whirlwind of emotion
a basin collects the heartstrings of my victims
I am that girl
or I was before my skirts got shorter and my patience as well
I slammed a girl into a wall to feel something
she felt her skull splinter into pieces
my heartstrings were not plucked by her pleas
but her screams did a number on me
I smiled, teeth gleaming as she retched
I'd consider it my greatest accomplishment
but maybe you won't
a stream of conciseness is uninterrupted until it is
that I've learned
but maybe you haven't
you make tears mean more than the cries of my victims
even though I silence them
I relish it
you take a feathered quill
why I cannot say but
I smash it
it grows back ink and all
you say smashing
will not solve all of my problems
but it has so far i
relish my anger you attempt to
annihilate it you are my greatest enemy
fear seeps from my pores but I know
I do not fear you
you sit in a leather chair
I scoff at you
I know you are in it for the money
you tilt your glasses and I smash them repeatedly in my mind
first your glasses and then your face your nose your lips
it's ****** but that's better than intact
throwing words at me that will upheave my life
your eyes bore into my soul
I see what's behind your kind smile it is daggers
and I must stop them before they tear my limbs off one by one
the bell rings and the pastel door creaks
it sighs open with a thud but I am running home
you call after me but I am free
free from those words and cards and calming letters
I am free
I might make this a draft again, but it's just a poem, a bad one at that. I know this is long, but if you read through it that would mean the world to me!
Its only those you trust with the keys who can destroy your soul.
Everyone who broke your heart you gave that power to.
edited immediately after posting...
to change it to statement rather than question.
The "why" is really quite irrelevant.... we just do.
We all will know the feeling of a broken heart or betrayed trust.
her clothes reeked of cheap perfume and daddy issues
polyester black cloth elegant and purposeful in its placing
she lived by the motto “everything is free if you run fast enough”
and figured that something was going to **** her anyway
why not let it be something of her own design?
she asserted this often
taking a drag of her pernicious cigarette
forcing her careful and cultivated opinions on everyone within shouting distance
if only to silence the sadist inside
besides she had already walked in loneliness through
most of a lifetime
full of satin bows and
amusement ahead of her
for she had no one to go with, neither kith nor kin
so it might as have happened now
because everyone always loves you better when you’re dead
mediocrely morbid (thats not a word) and kind of lame. still, fun to write and hopefully fun to read.
The cries of broken hearts
pleasantly melodious to my ears.
I collect bottles of pathetically wasted tears
and use them as ink for my typewriter.
Hopping from window to window,
I come in the form of guilt,
and a tinge of wringing regret.
I will bring you to the highest level
of self condemnation
and keep you miserably awake,
gifted with the soul of an insomniac.
I’d even leave wisps of bittersweet memories
if I was feeling a little sympathetic
or particularly magnanimous.
Certainly, I cannot always be lenient,
being a sadist is part of the job description.
but it makes me so happy..
i hate this side of me.
sorry i don't feel sorry for you