"assaults" poems
The elements have merged into solicitude,
Spasms of violets rise above the mud
And **** and soon the birds and ancients
Will be starting to arrive, bereaving points
South. But never mind. It is not painful to discuss
His death. I have been primed for this --
For separation -- for so long. But still his face assaults
Me; I can hear that car careen again, the crowd coagulate on
asphalt
In my sleep. And watching him, I feel my legs like snow
That let him finally let him go
As he lies draining there. And see
How even he did not get to keep that lovely body.
11.8k
When letters wait
to pounce on a blank page
when thoughts crowd the mind
like frothing **** in a pond
I keep wondering
what poetry is to me
what poetry is to many
Is it not the language of the heart
with no intervention of gray matter
the unlocking of closed vaults
stirring the embers of love, hurt or pain
or giving a free rein to fancy
and flying on magic carpets
to lands forlorn
Sometimes it is
a glide into a sea of tranquillity
an escape from
the humdrum of the world
a flash of liberation
from assaults of pain
a sedative
to numb the turmoil
a sanctuary
for a burdened heart
a window
to look at the world through
a companion
when one is inconsolably alone
a candle flame
in a darkening world
a cloth line
to hang the ***** laundry
a water lily blooming
in the pool of tears
a shelter
in homelessness
sometimes it is a ladder
to climb up to Heavens
an angel on wings
with tidings of hope
peace in a world
braced for war
Poetry, if you are all these
let us fall at your feet
bless us in our art
may we splurge in fancy
and conjure up worlds from words!
our poems may not be light houses
but could be fireflies
on a starless night!
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 11:56 AM UTC
“but if you have to move your best friend’s body…
…you’re on your own.”
Your best friend dies
Before your eyes
Somehow stays alive
Then what?
***** salt-licked hair
Brittle and frayed by medicine
World’s unfathomable weight
Trembling beneath the Wisdom Tree
Her whole being crumples (arrugar)
But her life-force remains intact
Body bone
Running on spirit reserves
Why is that?
She stands and cries
Staring into ether
I sit
Wringing my hands
Her tears strike the ground
In tree-gecko unison
'''
Pacific parasite super-strains
Blood coated throat
The full range of abuse’s color on all fronts
for decades
Attempted assaults, ****
Dengue
Giant Centipede venom to the skull
But worst of all
Rootlessness and fear
the monkey on her back
had a monkey on its back
and was smoking a cigarette
'''
Have you ever seen someone
Completely broken?
Corpsic shell of a woman
Gaunt, wan in the tropics
“Don’t put your trust in walls…
…walls will only crush you when they fall”
Brick-bludgeoned body
The shrapnel lay like
Sun scorched
Novice-woven baskets
At her feet
But now she can see
And breath
Real breath
'''
Genocide’s a ***** yes.
Africans seem fatalistic to Americans
Baby boy body, Grandpa human- shield
“They’re your babies”
Short-lived, yes
But now they have peace
Witnesses still weave the jungle
What do you do with a friend who’s
Seen real atrocity? Evil?
'''
I’m learning.
Prayer is power
Will transcends the concrete (Bunkle, too.)
She serves realness only
Her seeking hands unweave the sacred
Time is of no luxury right now
Serve people through love
and Grace awaits discovery
'''
I’ve never carried a bleeding body.
I needn’t “fear the terror by night,
Nor the arrow by day”
But I saw someone perish
And resurrect
What a gift
What a gift
Gubaadagem, Tinmad.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC
My life is a virtual battlefield
complete with hidden traps,
layered atop cowardly assaults
between highly guarded spans of peace,
Inside my house
chairs and walls
are coarsely blown to bits
by verbal bombs,
and stark fists of shrapnel.
Behind that simple smile,
semblance of solid love
so easily shaken,
lies a ripened mine field
I tread on tiptoes
yet it erupts under
calloused feet unprovoked,
blasting glory to grey
as sacred sanctuary
falls to scarred terrain.
Spears lodged inside ribs
I peel myself from the ground,
shake off soot,
wait for dust to settle
before I march forward, again.
yes I lose the battles
But I will win this war.
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 6:30 PM UTC
I laid the body wounded from war,
marking the pain of bleeding scar,
they drip no blood but crying word,
scream of whys is all can be heard.
This warrior fought without a gun,
the sword was laid on the ground.
Flew in the war without a shield,
embracing the fires of the field.
The warzone is silent and cold,
daylight is starting to fold,
omitted gore has no trace,
but agony and pain mantled the face.
Alone, the warrior stood with yielding feet,
the armored belligerent took their seat.
They watched this warrior drown with tears,
their laughter bit the bleeding ears.
The archenemies took off their casque,
these are faces of the warrior's past.
Hopelessly he fell on his knee,
looking at the grinning enemies.
Armored with the sharpest sword,
strengthen by their greatest lord.
They rumbled drums with deafening sound,
plotting the line of the warrior's bound.
The warrior faced the strongest foes,
murmur of vicious wind starts to blow.
No armor can block the slashing assaults,
as these are words comes like a lighting bolt.
Words stabs deeper than a pointed knife,
blotching doubt in warrior's life.
Painted the warzone with unwanted shade,
every glimpse of light starts to fade.
The warrior with no hope to win,
carried darkness with tattered skin.
You can't win against yourself,
they will reveal voices left in the shelf.
The warrior dwelled in the cold and dark cell,
fall of the tears in every hit of the bell.
Tired of the biting lullabies marching like a band.
The white flag was raised with trembling hand.
Jul 29, 2020
Jul 29, 2020 at 10:52 AM UTC
We can make this edible
without utensils
In a strange, menuless kitchen
Well, can you not make a salad?
Take a cucumber of memory
Slice it so thin that none of the recollections hurt anymore.
Mince some olives so fine
Their oil leaks onto the cucumber like OK.
Add the pulsing flesh of bright red tomatoes
But don’t slice them
Just squeeze them with your hand
Until they explode like wet epiphanies
And dare to dice a garlic clove
Without turning your nose away
As invisible olfactory reality
Assaults you with truth so pungent
That ECT would pale in comparison
To that very assault on your boundaries of understanding
And then toss the whole thing
Watching how it changes color and texture
And just when you both start to get hungry
And you both want to cry
The 50 minutes are over.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 11:08 AM UTC
Without legitimate occupancy,
Adverse possession is the legal right
Of anyone who moves in and maintains
A property, so here's the deal. We must
Move in to 1600 Penn,
The current tenant having broke the lease.
The caravan from Guatemala first, Hondurans trudging slowly from the depth.
Then the Yemen children not yet murdered,
Those with preexisting conditions next,
And women whose assaults were ridiculed,
Those roughed up by cops and politicians.
Losers in the war on drugs, the big house
Having far exceeded capacity.
The mentally ill, discarded by the
Great communicator after he tore
The Solar panels off the roof. This is
Anger, not poetic license. When a
Long train of abuses and usurpations
Evinces a design to reduce them
Under absolute Despotism, it
Is their right, it is their duty to throw
Off such Government, and to provide new
Guards for their future security. Such
Has been the patient sufferance of these
And such is now the necessity which
Constrains them to alter their systems of
Government. And journalists under fire,
If there's room still left in the briefing room,
Let facts be submitted to a candid
World.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 9:49 PM UTC
To the men who have hurt me, both physically and emotionally. To the men who have sexually harassed me. To the men who have tried to coerce and guilt trip me. To the men who tried to take advantage of me when I was 15, the lowest point in my life. When I was weak. Destroyed from depression, from bullying, from the transition of middle school to high school, from anxiety, from blind parents and others ignorance. To those of you who knew I was in a ****** up state of mind, who pretended to support me when I was crying, only to run your hand up my thigh and whisper "I can make you forget about it." To the boys who abused me, insulted me, struck me, brought a suicidal teenage girl to the point of destruction. To the guy who didn't quite **** me, but who came close. Who grabbed all over me while I shoved and smacked and told him to stop. Who tried to get inside me without my permission and who tried to guilt trip me, calling me a tease and telling me to lay down and pretend nothing was happening if it really bothered me so much. Who tried to teach me to retreat inside of myself at human contact so I wouldn't resist. To every guy who approached a mentally destroyed teenage girl who was drowning in herself to try to get ****** favors, to try to get me to trade my body for drugs, to try to bring me down even further so I wouldn't say no. Because I did say no. I always said no and fought and nearly vomited every time a guy started groping, started making lewd commentary in what started out to be small talk, every guy that grabbed at me without my permission and leered and tried to grind on me without any context other than you had a hard on and I looked weak enough to force yourself on. I hope someday someone rips you all apart. I hope someone tortures you, tries to blackmail you, coerce you, makes you feel like garbage when you're at your weakest. Because as much as all of you tried, even this fragile, broken teenager rejected you. Fought her hardest to get away from attempted assaults and made it, clawing and screaming away from you. Cried silently as angry, mocking messages came in but didn't dignify them with responses. Ignored angry phone calls from multiple numbers and continued to live, even when you all tried to break me into a *** slave. **** every last one of you up the *** with a flaming ***** I hope you all go through hell. I was going through hell and you all tried to destroy me, to incinerate my spirit in the name of getting someone to touch your ***** I hope you go through worse. I hope somebody castrates you. If there is an almighty deity, I hope they curse you for eternity. I hope you all know that the girl you tried to destroy for your own sadistic pleasure is stronger than ever before.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
The Mother Angels of Einstein's Eve heard
her shaking completely curly tresses, waiting
for the waves of the mountains' magical
colors, and beginning to undress, said,
understanding his limitations, and he retreated
to the desert, Marcus trafficking in ashes.
:- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - :
Asked for memory devices,
journalists look to the magazine
ISISToo like an angelic angel,
who has a solid table's tablet
that John describes in the water
that John describes as a hungry
Christian mother in the south,
Christian Christian light cuts into
bed and hatred, and in the shade
of the first wedding, John writes
Bettie sold out to the enemies of
the people because he planted in
Greece against angels angel Einstein
by a mother one who heard Eve fill
in the upper part of the corner,
waiting for the Hills Hills to get
water into the skin when these
magic-colored shades began to dress,
she answered, as measured by the
limitations until the reading was to
spread themselves into the ground
and report Jack's ashes scattered
throughout the desert. It depends
on the face of the world, and that
it literally means shadow shadow
shadow shadow. I think all the
wordless words are kissing: the
molecular is the girls with the dark
splinters and the calves, beginning
from the dark to light on the loaf of
**** for Satan launches the beans
placed on the socks before the Asian
Secrets that are in the patent to produce
data to meet with Lovers, and iron that
is important, and women who are soon
weeping, seat seats like Unfortunately,
for some other reason the costly assaults
over the years, the number of socks,
so long in the winter he was praying
for a streaming stream that closed
the glass glass inside the interior of the
interior, he received a 'meditation' gift,
the dreams, the, the thoughts, the singers;
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 11:16 PM UTC
at two years old,
your curious hands
happened upon a bottle of
flea medicine
that lay waiting on the counter.
your mother was absent as usual,
off on an errand,
or walking the dog.
unwatched,
your enterprising fingers
eased the lid from the container,
and you poured the sweet-smelling
liquid down your throat.
the world was still so new to you,
and it seemed to be made for tasting.
who could blame a child
with a thirst for more than
mushy peas and applesauce?
two days later
they released you from the hospital,
your stomach pumped dry.
when you were six,
idly exploring the woods of your mother’s
sprawling estate,
you paused a moment from imagining
faerie queens flitting about in the greenery
to take rest on a log,
your undiscerning eye not betraying
its secret: within it was a nest
of wasps,
and thinking they were faeries
you dared not move as they
rose in a cloud above your head
and overtook you,
leaving your body peppered with
painful angry sores.
you fell to the ground.
a hired man,
strong and tall as the oak trees,
saw your quick descent and
ventured after you,
made a hammock of his arms
to bear you like a fallen soldier
back to your mother’s house,
his tough sun-leathered skin
immune to the assaults of the
faerie battalion.
at eight,
playing in the small child-sized house
in your aunt’s garden,
you sought to make stained glass
from the broken shards of the playhouse window.
having no tool at hand,
what better way to
shatter the clear, flat plane
than with your fist?
before reason could take hold of you,
you drove your hand
through the glass,
and the raw edges cut deep into your veins.
blood flowed in rivers
from your wrist.
your aunt, ever watchful,
rushed from the house to
stop your body’s catharsis
with a dishcloth.
the jagged unpainted shards
lay forgotten on the ground.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 10:05 PM UTC
Take a step
Breathe
Take a step
Off the edge
Fall free into the air
Nothing is up
Nothing is down
Floating in freefall
Wind meanders by
Your body speeds
To somewhere
But the mind is behind
The air has stopped now
Were you in distress?
Or did you imagine that?
Either way, you’re finished now
Falling ends at the bottom
Of the endless nether
The ground creeps up
Then your body assaults it
Laying on the concrete
Waking from a dream
Brush yourself off
And take a step off the edge
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
An anarchist atom
Assaults the atmosphere
With anger and aerial arson
Bringing, begetting
Brutal and ****** battles
In my brain
Initiating chaos
With charges
Of chemicals.
A disection, distortion
Diversion of dedication
And direction
Causing eruptions
Emissions
Of erratic, electric elements
Of ego.
Ferocious fires form
In filaments, firmaments
Feeding the fantastic
Forces
Which grow and gain
In greatness in gravity
Grave, gory, gorgeous
Gloom.
Henceforth hidden horrors
Harrowed in a hollow heart
Instantly interact with
Intimate ideas
Initiating irregular, irrational
Irreversible
Irrelevant
Intimacy
Jealousy
Jumbling of jinxes
And laws of the jungle
For kicks
Leading to lies
Leaving love for loneliness
Loss.
A massive moral meltdown
In my mind
Negating, neutralising
normality
Orchestrates an open
Onslaught of order
And ordinary
People's principles
To pursue passion
And perfection
In a poetic periphery
Quite queer to some
And quaint to those
Not acquainted with
Rushes of ramblings
Received and reciprocated
Or radical ridicule
Of rascals.
Synapses send,
Signal every sinew
Simulating similar signs
But transmitting treacherous
Tingles
Teasing, trapping thoughts
In terror, temptations
To commit treason
Unforgivable, unforgettable
Us
Vivid and vibrant
But also very
Woeful
Wishing we were wild
And willing to walk
Our wishes make wonderful
Wells of
Youth
And creative zest.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
Neither girl nor male… So what am I? Am I the so-called perv aiming to invade the wrong bathroom? Am I a heretic aiming to impose my wickedness onto the world? Am I the clocking stares they give me? How about the result of a broken home or a broken heart? Does my mere existence force you to reevaluate your identity? When all I'm trying to do is figure out mine. Neither girl nor male… So you tell me where I am to relieve my bowels. Or am I to stitch them shut for your comfort? While I'm at it, shall I stitch my eyes shut as to not burden you with running mascara; which further assaults my "feminine façade"? I'm sorry to burden you with my fake ***** of which a second of labor (turning your head) would relieve you of your distress. I'm sorry you'd rather slave away starring and clocking them. Clocking me. I am sorry that I was born male yet refuse to live up to such expectations. I am sorry that despite my best efforts I cannot pass for how I feel. Believe me—for the life of me—I am trying. As punishment for lack of natural ******* I stretch my skin to form a pleasing cleavage. As punishment for having the wrong body type, I wear a cage around my abdomen two sizes too small that cuts into my rib cage dare I seek the comforts of sitting down. As punishment for being born with a male anatomy, I crunch my disheveled sack of nerve endings between my chaffing thighs. Dare my body have the audacity to ***** itself for any reason I bend the muscle, in such a way never intended, between my legs just to have one less aesthetic reminder as to what I am not. Your clocking stares painfully remind me that I may never be seen as how I see myself. But ****** do I try. Until I do, I am condemned to be neither male nor… female.
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 4:05 AM UTC
times like this, the plenary moon
tonight wearing many faces,
the white-washed truant at bay
white-hulled still, the brim of the sky
to a full, on such a bright night leaving a trace
of say, prongs of fire on the kiln
the skin the soft breeze molests with a chill
flung from pinecone – the blackened spires of the
very heart of flame and the mullioned wood that understands
what the heat of placeness mints underneath
our skin – what silence remains a translation when the smoldering
remains are bitten repeatedly, aureoled in the moment of vital meaning.
we hear its threat, retained in clock-whirs
like a primordial word or the fluting of light’s bendable
rondure harnessing a truth we let in.
I fail behind the walled-up lip of laughter
because the weight of passing
is heavy on my back – like a bough dragged
by rainwater, or sound elected to drown:
the smell of poinsettia assaults,
lifting its slaughter against Kiltepan and Ambuklao,
past mountains lulled to sleep: the moon sleuthing
like a well-oiled machine. what do you hear?
we are aware of its full absence,
like that of our undulation after a fall,
or the wild sibilance of breath trying to utter something,
going back home with a song in between teeth,
without words.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
The Mona Lisa assaults my brain,
Acrid perfume polluting my lungs.
Does the Mona Lisa not care if I die?
I see her chuckling,
Waggling her finger,
Saying with bitter ****
"You'll never be in the Metropolitan Museum of Art."
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
Daffodils in my garden
lie damaged & still
Fragile spirits of
these delicate dancers
crushed by-
the angry assaults thru the sky.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
# *written in collaboration
with Glass Slipper Girl*
Is it ecstasy or agony
How you make me feel
What you do to me
Bliss when I am with you
When you're gone, I'm incomplete
My mind you have infected
Gave you my heart
Which you gladly keep
With just one taste, I was addicted
You fulfilled my every need
Yet, I fear that everything's twisted
It's too late though;
I'm in too deep
I've been robbed; only you I suspected
My mind convicts while my heart sets you free
If common sense is a train
then I missed it
Took a chance, circumstance was defeat
All my plans, with one dance
You dismissed them
Still, these actions I'll always repeat
----------------- -----------------
*Is it fantasy or reality
fleeting feelings defying gravity
what you do to my sanity
bona fide madness
sensuality off the charts
our own poetic sensual Rhapsody
Dizzy dazed lost in your Oasis
chasing your sweet enthralling embraces
**** salacious temptations
seductions of ***** flirtatious
stunning me senseless
leaving this Texas girl breathless
A harden criminal
for “the love” you had become
detained and handcuffed
you had to know I was gonna run
trapping a thief of hearts
just can't be done
escaping your enticing assaults
this prison cell sweetheart
made her jailbreak, the Great Escape
before you knew it
I was already gone
Yet, sometimes
every now and again
with my “Get out of Jail” free card
this fugitive still takes a look back
wishing I hadn't gone so far
jumping that railroad car
running away from those
Train Tracks of Love*
#
Jul 13, 2021
Jul 13, 2021 at 6:36 PM UTC
The walls cry-out as they burn.
A tumult of roars wreathed in the crackle of blazing matter.
Which is louder?
Perspective will tell.
The one who assaults,
Or the one assaulted?
The roar, or the crackle?
The giver, or the receiver?
Pleasure in two forms, two-faced gratification.
One hand for dispensation,
One mouth for sublimation.
And do we not all sublimate?
Base impulses, rank ideas,
On the surface, vindicate?
The residue of consequence
Brusquely scrub and expiate?
Perspective will tell.
We espy hedonism, unbridled delight,
And may envy those who bathe in these muddied pools,
Focusing our most ephemeral sense on dazzling cacophony,
Ignoring the estranged husband of hedonism,
Shunning the divorcée of delight.
Which is truly louder?
Perspective will tell.
In Oscar Wilde’s Salome the moon is thus described:
“She is like a woman who is dead. She moves very slowly.”
Pandemonium in the hall, the howling of wild beasts,
But she remains “a woman who is dead,”
And “she moves very slowly.”
The divorcée of delight,
A pitiful coming-down.
The remnant of misuse,
The scarring of abuse.
One reads on a stone:
The hardly-lovéd daughter of overuse.
And the one who gazes overlong is warned:
“You look at her too much.
It is dangerous to look at people in such fashion.
Something terrible may happen.”
The walls cry-out as they burn,
And they cry in desperation.
What we see is conflagration.
The light: A brilliant exultation.
The crackle: A herald of termination.
But when ash is blown in silence,
It is dangerous to look at what remains:
Scar tissue.
Slow death.
Residue.
The head of John.
The bones of Salome.
Broken glass.
Wilted flowers.
Cracked foundation on hollow cheeks.
Red lips the stain of blood on ivory cloth.
Festering flies.
The beating of vultures’ wings.
The snoring of satiated beasts.
The stumbling home.
Apologies.
Sublimation.
Conflation.
Expiation.
…
One’s well-mannered pause until the other’s end,
So that the one may pause…
And begin again.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
The flesh may still be fine...
One must just pare bruised
And bad spots away,
As a razor once excised mine.
A blurred mind mused
At the slowness of life
When it oozed,
Crimson's contrast
On pale skin,
Like paint
Escaped my palette,
Or red roses on canvas,
Mute shouts of color
Wasted in slick puddles
On the floor.
Red too soon fades sepia;
Wounds become scars,
Their hardness protects,
Forever reminds.
Though grown timid
Of assaults from steel,
Old psyche still yields
To lancet's probing,
Words released fall,
Now as drops to paper.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 3:59 PM UTC
Our men are heroes, of course.
They protect us, gun in hand,
against enemies plastered on posters
vandalizing once-beautiful stone storefronts.
More every day.
Stapled on top of one another
until words blend.
"But now,"
the overly made-up woman at the podium says,
"women can do our part."
They’ve gathered other pretty blondes
with symmetrical features measured
by a myriad of devices.
Beautiful,
demure
women
with
beautiful,
Aryan
genes
to breed with our handsome heroes.
Because women,
and the children we bear,
are the key to Germany’s future.
I glance at the woman to my right,
eyes skiing down the slope of her nose
to rest on smiling lips.
Is the blush on her cheeks genuine,
or set by rouge?
It suits her.
She catches me staring.
My breath hitches in my throat.
I throw my attention back to the woman
glorifying human broodmares.
Heat assaults my cheeks.
“Your rouge is lovely.”
Her whisper warms me.
“Can you believe this?
Us, with war heroes?”
She sighs.
I can practically see the dream
play through the air.
A husband coming home in uniform,
splaying a hand on her swollen belly
and kissing her forehead.
A fantasy.
These men…
they’ll come,
take what they want from us for granted
and claim they did us a favor
when they leave us alone
with child.
But my fingers would dance
never-ending pirouettes
across that porcelain skin.
Swirl intricate patterns
through golden hair,
all for that sigh
to carry a dream with me in it.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
And he traces her inner thigh with his lips, eliciting a moan from her as he teases her entrance.
He slides a finger in, pressing deep inside her. She bucks her hips up to meet his knuckle, he growls with feigned arousal. He resurfaces, attacking her mouth, owning her. She surrenders to his tongue, if only to allow nostalgia passage. She rubs herself against him, a mewling kitten in heat, crying harder. She fakes an ****** to satisfy him.
He presses his **** against her and she realises how little she affects him. Determined, he forces himself past her barrier, grunting and growling. He assaults her mouth again and she reacts accordingly, trailing her nails down his back in a futile attempt to rekindle. She is unsure of how this came to be. She fights back tears as she threads her fingers through his hair. She knows she is still and always will be second best. He grows soft. A tacit agreement. Neither of them finish.
She rolls over to face the television. An old british comedy is on loop, making the same stale jokes that may have been funny a decade ago. And here she is, on repeat, making the same mistakes she made a decade ago.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
My first glimpse of
Operatic joy occurred
March 12th of years past.
In their foolishness,
They allowed me a go
At an open vehicle of
Two wheels
that went as fast as I wanted,
Where I wanted,
For however long I wanted.
I would bike away in my dreams
As they mounted assaults in life,
I couldn't help but feel invulnerable
Upon my nimble ride.
Yes O yes,
I still cruise to this day.
My freedom is mine
Forever to behold and make.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 12:14 AM UTC
I went out without wearing makeup
without feeling the need to constantly
check myself for perfection
and I ask myself
why can't woman
just be allowed to be human?
Why do we have to shave to
look perfect the whole time
to birth children
and still be expected to always function perfectly
why are our bodies constantly taxed objectified
in **** movies music and in so many relationships
why do we have to wear makeup
to disguise our beautiful
so called imperfections
that are just so human
why are we fed lies so often
that we must shrink our bodies
our pain
and laugh off our abuse
our rapes our ****** abuse
our ****** assaults
why do we have to always say but its not everyone
its implied
why can't we just be allowed to walk home
without always feeling cautious
why cant we go to parties alone
why can't we just live alive
in our beautiful bodies
and not be hated.
I can't wait for the men to heal
and for the women to heal and
that maybe one day
the world can be a better and safer
place for us
and for all of the future woman
all I know is
the amount of violence that exists
makes me so so angry and so hurt
I wanna turn away
I wanna look away
but I can't because its my own face
staring back at me
begging me to tell our story
begging me to feel my anger
my anger at all the men
that made so many aspects of my life
very messed up for a very long time
that I still cry about every single **** day
of my life
for a very long time
and I when I didn't cry
I drank I numbed
for the pain
that I felt
for the shudders
I felt in my body
when I felt the men objectify me
abuse me use me violate me
hurt me in the worst ways possible ,
it is a pain no human should ever experience.
For in my religion
it is taught
that women are blamed for everything
for every **** thing
and still we must be submissive
and they tell me" that this is life".
No I always yelled
it seems like slavery,
so I yelled I fought with my voice,
just to be woken up to see the non religious world ,
a pretty bad place as well .
So I guess this is my silent but loud cry.
Sep 10, 2023
Sep 10, 2023 at 3:35 PM UTC
Withering, withering, withering down.
A spiral of emptiness and weakness in my own heart.
A sickly form of hate.
A frail figure of shadows and misery and memorie.
O! and what is the field of golden corn compared to the bruise on your throat.
Choked by the ********** of godliness, when she is called life///when she is called death.
Forced to spit out your last drop of blood, through your pharynx///through your eyes.
Sexually with the knife in hand. Like stone to butter, stabbing within the heart of the devil. Like the beast with three ***** who carries the devil in his sinful testicles...you stab stab stab at the flesh of your own chest.
No hair after the fire, no blood after the lust.
The sexuality which assaults YOUR OWN SANITY. It becomes you.
Withering and withering within the HELL of your own spiral.
O! and when are you to become the devil within the sac of the beast?
To be born and reborn again within the light of the sun.
Burning away in a pool of blood that you craved forever.
Burning back together in a pool of ***** that you craved forever.
O! and who are you when you are left naked and alone by your own hand in a pool of hate that you craved forever, I asked myself.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 10:14 PM UTC
I frequently fall with infatuation
Facing assaults of accounts and allegations
Precursored by overwrought thoughts of the distraught
That they, the piqued and pained, were aware of my plot
Harm I intended, only fuelled by lust
Being insensitive and callous is but a must
For I, the brutish devil who led you astray
Have left you enveloped in utter dismay
I dismantled your faith and replaced it with doubt,
With this symbol of mine that carries much clout,
Leaving my victims mourning in tears
For I have give veracity to their fears
The tears of my prey fabricate a rivers flow
That only I, the acccursed Aquarius may know
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 10:36 PM UTC