"consensual" poems
When I am in statistics I cannot focus
because the world around me is ending in my mind
slowly fading into something without meaning
until I cannot breathe and I have to leave
to go cry in the bathroom.
When I am in my statistics class I cannot focus
because there is a boy there who looks like my favorite **** star
I know what his ***** looks like
or might look like
Schrödinger's **** in a box.
I cannot help but stare at him and
picture him in gym shorts and no boxers
or cargo pants and no boxers
or just in boxers
or.
It's an uncomfortable feeling of morbid intrigue that
makes me tap my toes too fast.
I want to know him.
I want to tell him that
I love the way he smiles
and laughs and communicate s
and makes sure everyone is safe and happy.
I can only watch **** that has behind-the-scenes features.
It's comforting to know that
everyone is happy and
everything is consensual and
everyone is having fun.
I get too invested in these people, too attached -
One time I had to give up
and take a moment to breath
because I was just so overwhelmed with pride
Like a parent watching their kid graduate after all their hard work.
And that feeling is not okay.
And seeing that boy in my class is not okay,
Because I feel so proud of all he's accomplished
So when he answers a question right in class all I can think about is
When he ****** a **** on camera for the first time
And the first time he licked whipped cream off another man's *******
And it's very distracting.
When I am in statistics I cannot focus
because I start to worry that I will fail this class
and then I start to worry that I will hate my future
and then I worry about having a future in the first place,
bunching up into an unfocused, panicking, asthmatic mess.
The **** star boy is a distraction.
It's because of him that I'm passing this class.
( and in a way, a stupid, silly way,
it's because of him that I'm alive. )
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
I've had
****
Not ***
Not **********
Not consensually.
I've been
******
*****
abused.
taken advantage of.
whatever it is you want to call it
I've had it done.
I've been kissed
Fingered
choked
hit
spit on
spit in
I've been held,
hostage
with knives against my throat
guns to my head,
in my mouth
drugs down my throat
barely conscious I've been
******
I've been in love
I've been heartbroken
I've been touched
consensually,
let me tell you about the consensually.
I've been kissed in the bathroom, lifting
her
up against the wall
laughing when our teeth brushed against
one another's
hands fumbling up a skirt
around a throat
fingers tangled in wavy hair.
I've been touched sitting in her lap
outside on a hot day
wearing her hoodie
around children
freshmen year.
I've been touched
multiple times
by him
in band rooms, away from prying eyes
secrets to be kept and wooed over
laying in a dress
during a concert event
head in the lap of my best friend
underwear brushed to the side
fingers thrusting in
and yes, this was consentually.
I've been touched
in the school hallways
every day after school or in between classes
tasted and tasted
he tasted me
I tasted myself.
And in the living room of our best friend's house
even though I told him no
I told him the safe word
he continued.
I say it was consensual because in the end,
I said I loved it.
Don't argue about it.
I wanted it.
and I've been touched
in her pool
heated ever so lovingly
LED lights danced us into the temptation
as did the alcohol on my part
with her lips against my chest
desperate to mark, yet not to show
i mean, hey, my step-dad's homophobic
though I'd love nothing more than to show who I belong to.
We switched a lot, but ultimately I landed in her lap
water licking up my sides,
sending chills to *******
goosebumps
and her fingers hesitating
not daring to touch.
"i'm going to need a yes."
finally.
Finally asked.
I nodded eagerly
and she treated me like a piano
perfect notes
though brief I know that I was
drenched in all ways
the chlorine water yes
and of course the obvious.
you see, we were going to do something that night
we had the chance to
I wanted to
she wanted to
In the end,
she took something for her headache
though it was a sort of
similar thing to Nyquil
We were going to.
But we laid in bed
and we molded against each other
and sailed asleep.
I've slept with one person.
Her
Sydney
My Muse.
But Still, A ******
am I
Mar 26, 2021
Mar 26, 2021 at 5:31 AM UTC
Anwar Ibrahim
Convicted of ****** in 2008
Acquitted in 2012
The Court of Appeal overturned the acquittal
He is currently serving his sentence
An aide to Anwar
Said he was sodomized by Anwar
****** even if consensual
Is punishable by up to 20 years in Malaysia
Anwar responded the complaint was politically motivated
Support for Anwar grown stronger
His wife is battling his conviction
Some say that political rival Dr. Mahathir
Will recover from his decrease in popularity
And remain in control
Because he helped Malaysia through a though economic time
Although it seems as though Anwar is gaining support
From a majority of the Malaysian people
Human rights groups accused Malaysia's government of using
An anachronistic colonial era law that criminalizes
"Carnal *********** against the order of nature"
To persecute Anwar
Anwar leads a three-party opposition that has become
Increasingly popular in the predominantly Muslim nation
This is not just
Anwar has been wrongly accused
I will pray for his wife
And his supporters
Stay strong Anwar
You are an innocent man
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
Never tell the girl with messy hair and wide eyes that when her father sexually abused her they were, "fooling around." Fooling around is a consensual act between two lovers, friends, or strangers in which both gain pleasure and to make her feel as though that is something she did is degrading and destructive. She's already been through that once.
When I got that anonymous question asking me "why is it when you fool around with your dad, no one gets in trouble, but when I do it I'm a ****** I almost snapped. The smell of cheap beer formed under my nose and the entire contents of my stomach almost fell to the side of my bed, however, I had not eaten enough to push all of my mental instability out of my mouth. I could feel my father's hands around my wrist, pulling, pinning, calloused hands scratching my nine year old skin. I could hear my young cries for help, and the tears staining my cheeks. I could feel the air on my ear as he whispered. "Tell anyone and it'll be worse next time." I remembered cleaning my own blood from the carpet that afternoon.
And I almost replied with a defensive remark, but I stopped. There was no need for this private matter to be put on display on a social media forum, because then who's the girl that "fooled around" with her father?
But then the question, it irks me to my very core, the reason my hands are so swiftly typing this poem between waves of hurricanes in my eyes. It's as if my dignity has been stripped from me again, no more layer of scar tissue to protect even the deepest layers of my darkest secrets. Nothing was safe anymore.
And when I showed it to my boyfriend, the look in his eyes terrified me. It was as if someone had just dropped a match on a mile long pile of bone dry trees doused in gasoline. But someone had. Someone had dropped a match on me, just as fragile and capable of burning up completely.
Never tell the girl with messy hair and wide eyes that when her father sexually abused her they were, "fooling around." Fooling around is a consensual act between two lovers, friends, or strangers in which both gain pleasure and to make her feel as though that is something she did is degrading and destructive. She's already been through that once.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 8:59 AM UTC
One morning, I decided to ask people what their favorite myth is. I asked them what myth did they think was the greatest, and the one that made a huge impact on them. The most interesting one, the myth that would keep you wanting for more. Some people said vampires, some people said dragons, some said the origin of the world, and of course, most of them said the famous Greek mythology. And I asked some, what myth do they think is the most unlikely thing to happen, what is the myth that will never be real? And I was taken aback when some said their favorite myth was **** culture, followed with laughter. As if it’s a myth, as if it’s fiction, as if it’s something that isn’t real.
**** culture is a myth. It’s not real. It’s not happening. Apparently, it’s just a work of fiction for some people. Apparently it is a myth when it’s happening everyday. It is a myth when you report it to them, and instead of asking “Are you okay?”, the first question they will ask is “What were you wearing?”. Because your skirt was the reason, your sleeveless top was the one that gave them permission. And when you told them you were wearing sweatshirt and pants, they will ask you “Were you drinking?”. When someone took away something that is yours without consent and you’ll be the one blamed. Because you were wearing shorts, because you were drinking, because you were just outside. *When we teach women everything about not getting ***** but we don’t teach men to simply not **** When our bodies are nothing to you but to objectify. When you see us and think the word sexualize.* When they asked you whether you said no or stop, and if you didn’t, you liked it. It was consensual. But you never said yes, and it’s not **** right? It is not real when people shame the victim, when the help people are giving you are words such as **** ***** and instead of calling you a survivor you will be known as “the girl who was asking for it”. *It is a work of fiction when nothing happens to the ****** or when some even refuse to call that person a ****** You will see headlines describing him as an athlete, as someone who has scholarship, any good thing but ****** *It is a myth when the ****** runs free, but the victim is still suffering and constantly being shamed. It is a myth when the world thinks men who are getting ***** are weak men, when they don’t think the consent of men are also important.* When people continue to joke about something that can ruin someone else’s life. Apparently all of these things aren’t real, these things aren’t happening.
But how could one person even think that **** culture is a myth? That **** culture doesn’t exist? *It’s not like the trojan war, because it’s far more chaotic. It destroys and kills people. It lets bad people win and victims suffer. It’s not like vampires who don’t sleep and **** people’s blood, instead this is even more dangerous than vampires. This normalizes something dangerous, something horrible.* And the people who do it, who contribute to it, and who do nothing to stop it? Are worse than monsters in mythology. And why would we even call it a myth when we learn something good in myth? When myth teaches us something good in life? **** culture is not a myth, **** culture is happening everywhere. *When you turn on the television and see comedians joking about **** when people call the **** victim they know a **** when people don’t believe someone when ***** reports it to them, when until now, **** is still considered inevitable.* **** culture is not a myth, **** culture is real, **** culture is happening. And they say **** culture is part of the reality that we have to face, but what do we do to things that bring us no good? To things that damage our reality? *We do everything we can to stop them, to destroy them, to crush them. And that needs to happen to **** culture,* now.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 5:26 AM UTC
Can I just write a poem that says **** the police"
for every single line
for every single stanza
and leave it at that?
Because I'm imagining his next victim, because there will be a next one,
and how she will feel when she finds out that he had my former report
on his private police record, accessible only by certain police.
I want to scream, but the metal chain he put around my throat to choke me because
"ha ha you like that, right?" after I had already said no
is still there, so nothing can come out of my mouth,
except I've been screaming as loud as I can for so long;
One year and I'm still not free.
His body weight is still crushing me, still heavy; the bruises on my body still felt every day, my body a museum of decaying loss and my mind a perfect video recording that plays on repeat whenever I just
want
some
sleep;
Nightmares I wake from and can't wake from.
I think one of the hardest days of my life was when I got my **** kit.
I mean- you know- other than the actual ****
I developed a stutter that day.
I blame myself.
I blame. I -I- I blame myself.
But I can't!
All of the "no's" that I said to him didn't matter, the police said;
everything non consensual didn't count;
it was only the one coerced "yes" that counted;
Scared for my life but, **** the police, right?
And all the times that I said to the police "yes" that I was *****
collapse and boom like a bomb on deaf ears of police that tell me that,
"maybe you just regretted having *** with him."
Or how about when they rolled their eyes when they learned that I met him on tinder?
I gave them a smile and answered that yes, that's true, because what else was I supposed to do but tell the truth?
Or the first thing they said to me was "so then you had a few drinks..."
Well no, sir, that's not what happned, at all.
See, there have been multiple levels of injustice here and I thought I was doing the right thing to heal.
In my partial hospitalization program that I went to for PTSD,
that I got from my ******
I learned that the "right" thing to do was to seek help right away after a traumatic incident so that it doesn't lead to lifelong suffering;
Quick help leads to a faster recovery,
and I've always wanted to do the right thing:
Like getting him arrested for ****** me.
But the police don't listen even when your body has been confiscated, graffiti marked by your ******
and the police tell you coldly to just seek counseling because, after all,
you "consented,"
and that your ****** isn't a ****** in the eyes of the law.
A ****** isn't a ****** but is a ****** and he's going free.
I did the right thing but I'm still stuck night after night, waking up crying;
I wonder who will be next, and that person's weight is added on top of me;
The gallery of bruises he inflicts will just continue, and I wonder where on snapchat will they be next?
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 8:10 AM UTC
"Write what you know."
I want to write about
beautiful things,
but I only know
ugly.
Ugly hearts and stone blood.
Fetid loyalty.
I want to write about a love as pure as honey,
but all I know are the poison-tipped thorns of betrayal.
If I could put the right words
in the right order
at the right time
and explain what it means to lose you,
nobody would care.
I'd like to write about
my happy family,
laugh filled birthdays
and joyous gatherings,
but I only know
fractious,
secretive,
********
I want to touch another soul
make a connection with my words
share a part of my self
and help someone in the process,
but all I have been taught is
taking
keeping
lying
hiding
running
ruining.
I would love to write
like Pablo,
of wheat
and bread
and fields that don't weep,
but all I know are
desperate fumblings
in ******
beer soaked bathrooms,
back alley
drunken
********
by black
barely passable trannys,
diseases and
barely consensual bloodstains.
I cannot speak of such things.
It's bad enough I think about them,
even worse I write about them.
I write what I know.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:26 AM UTC
Her hands always quick to throw.
Spit the first words.
Throw the first punch.
Relationships aren't perfect.
Mine was far from.
Words biting deep into my soul.
Tearing me apart bit by bit.
I was a doll in her games.
Her hands constantly put up one me.
Non consensual things.
Yes **** still applies in relationships.
All the people would come to her house.
Watch the door while we roll this.
Watch the door while we crush these.
I was nothing but a pawn in her games.
Sneaking ***** into my drinks.
Calling me nothing at nights when I couldn't sleep.
Holding me close only to destroy me later.
A.C. Long gone.
Down a road very bad.
A road of **** and ******
Going to collage to be a psychologist until she fell into the arms of the monster.
The monster she hold so dear.
The monster who changed her.
The monster clenching her soul.
This monster can be injected,
This monster can be smoked...
this monster is impossible once it gets a hold.
She became the monster.
The one I was afraid of.
Started off small then bigger.
Drugs won't affect you unless you do them,
A common mistake people say.
No, never once did they affect me.
Or at least I can say.
But that was a lie.
Depression, eating disorders, self harm, emotional abuse, physical abuse, trauma, hallusionations, trust issues, fear.
All lay deep within the hands of the monster.
The monster chokes the good memory out of me.
The monster put me on a leash.
Home by midnight.
Locations on my phone.
Who is he.
Why are you not home?
A controlling girlfriend.
Talk to no one.
Only her.
Her whom was held dear by the monster.
The monster took the form of a black blur.
The one that sneaks up when you least expect it.
Yet she was excellent at hiding it.
I'm fine.
Nothing is wrong.
What's wrong with you.
Why do you question me.
Keep your mouth shut or things will get bad.
Tape over my mouth because god you don't want to see her mad.
Clothing may have hid my bruises.
The emotional pain still apparent.
All because my girlfriend held a contract with the monster.
The monster held her at night.
And that is what the hands do.
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 5:35 PM UTC
A girl lies naked, bruised and bleeding on the bathroom floor. She’ll say she was ***** but it’ll be her who’ll take the fall. The football team will still play that Friday night and she’ll be accused of telling hysterical lies.
“She was breaking the dress code” you were breaking the law, violation of the law gets you a court sentence but rich parents get you good lawyers who get you off free, she’ll never be free to walk the streets home alone fearing that every time she looks into a man’s eyes she will see the image of you as she prayed for help but was instead preyed on by the Prom King Predator.
Her bruises whether they be physical or not are hers to reveal and if you feel the need to go around telling her story then you’re an *** “she had a sweet *** you had sweet talk which made her feel safe and then suddenly she felt betrayed. So she’s a ***** if she sleeps with a guy even if it wasn’t consensual but when you sleep with a girl you’re a playa and did a good job on hitting that; you going to bang her? ***** her? Nail her?
The words used to describe it are almost as violent as the act done upon her.
There was pain in her voice but her body betrayed her, it portrayed pleasure when all she felt was agony. The pain in her voice was clear to those around her but the pleasure was all they focused on, the pleasure is what caused her the feeling of being ashamed for the next four years until she could open up to someone.
Around school she was known as the quiet girl, the girl without a story, this was true in a sense because her story like most was never told.
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 4:30 AM UTC
so you call yourself pro-life
okay, I guess I can pretend to respect that
which then means that you must also
respect the fact that I am very loudly pro-choice
and thanks to science
I know that a bundle of cells
and a living child are not the same thing
because an actual fetus is not fully formed
until the third trimester
and by fully formed I mean that it is
for all intents and purpose alive
but before that
there is nothing but a group of cells
there is no brain
no heart
not even pearly pink fingernails
so now what, huh?
you’re probably going to keep protesting
Planned Parenthood and harassing the people
that work there, right?
because all that Planned Parenthood does
is condone the vicious and inhumane ******
of defenseless, unborn children, right?
right?
either way, you don’t care about the child
once they’re born
all that you care about is making a woman
and other individuals who have a ******
carry this thing that is literally feeding off of them
and why should a child be brought into this world
if the circumstances through which it was
conceived are non-consensual?
because, if you really did care
if you really were “pro-life”
then you would care about the child
after it is born
or better yet
you could turn your attention and time and money
and anger to all the millions of orphans living
in the US
ya know, the living children?
with no homes?
with no parents?
packed like sardines in orphanages?
what about them?
do they not matter because they are not a group
of cells, and therefore not defenseless?
and therefore they do not matter?
because,
if you only care about that bundle of cells
and because some states actually make women
and those with uteruses
have funerals for the aborted “child”
then by default whenever a man
masturbates and then **********
shouldn’t he be made to have a separate
funeral for each of the thousands of children
that he just killed?
because one of them could have cured cancer, ******
and tell me
when I was still menstruating
should I have said “amen”
over all the potential children that bled out
of my body and into the pad
and the sides of my boxers?
should I have
said “grace” over all the
little pad mummies that I threw away?
should I have cried when I flushed
the ****** toilet paper?
because,
since I have a ******
how dare I want and feel as if I should
be owed control over my own body, right?
how dare I believe that
each and every woman
biological and otherwise
have a say in what they do with their body
how dare I be pro-choice, right?
well, let me knock you down
a few pegs with this closing statement:
if you only care about the “child” when it is
just a group of cells that doesn’t feel a **** thing
and couldn’t care less about it
once it is born
and homeless
or an orphan
or queer
then you are not “pro-life”
what you are
is an *******
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 10:12 PM UTC
his name is andrew
i met him once
he seemed like an *******
but like
in a good way
we met.
i stayed at his house.
he was an actual *******
we had ***
while i was half asleep.
i cant remember if it was consensual
in the beginning.
i left the next morning.
he started being weird.
sending me gibberish.
i blocked him.
he added me back
again
and again
and again
30 times now.
making usernames
calling me fat
and again
and again
please dont find me
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 2:00 AM UTC
had some ****** up dream
some ratchet chick kept saying 'fuck me' etc
so i went to do it but where was her *****
it was like too blurred or something, was that my **** or...her's?
i went it to but...my *** ended up taking the ****
why are other's always present with these ****** dreams?
then later i think like, i'm on MD majorly
can barely sit down, my mums calling me, i can't speak!
i'm trembling! gotta wait for the come down
these images are made all the worse by the fact i'm at my grandad's house
some train **** we heading to northern chinatown
but it's all so confusing, do i jump on the tracks and wake up as i die?
or do i get on the wrong train, because like the platforms are so mixed up
platform 7 is yesterday's plat. 5
one thing i will say is there are no vondelspectors anywhere to be seen
i remember in part of the same saga (my dreams take me different places these days)
more fruity and exotic, but still a girl in a bikini
and still other observers, but as I'm in a dream i'm like, why not?
is this not the one place i'm allowed to **** *******
is that bad? or is it merely consensual?
she's twerking kinda, or i'm rubbing up against her
get an ******** but then, her dad notices
so i pull some crazy faces and wave the bulge in my pants for the world to see, and wake up
there was definitely a epic thrown in there
some strange motion in which i play the protagonist
or anti-hero, i can hardly tell because i keep waking up,
sleeping again to dream more, it's so addictive
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
Some people like being tied up.
Being tied up scarred me.
Being tied up unable to stop the torture, was disturbing.
Some people will never understand this torture.
He said it was the goodbye to our relationship.
This was a goodbye no one wants.
People thought it was consensual with the marks on my neck.
They were wrong this wasn't consensual, it took my self esteem.
The ties were broken after that night.
When the ties were broken, he didn't like that.
He made different media accounts under different names to see me.
I'm proud to say I survived the ties but not many do.
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 8:56 PM UTC
In these last moments that I breathe,
tell me why you made this plea?
That my touch was a forced one,
when you knew it was consensual
Before I could blink,
the world had gone bizarre
they came, they beat me,
paraded me naked on the street
Do you think I deserved this?
A punishment for an uncommitted crime?
Don't forget that you have killed me
in an unfair public trial
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 4:49 AM UTC
Old will be my bed,
But
Memories will be undead.
The moments will be sensual,
And
The love we make will be consensual.
Oh my good girl,
Come to me,
Into a happier world, you I shall pull.
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 5:32 AM UTC
This divided society
putting most of us in poverty
but can't do nothing 'bout it
cause the computer cuts us too neatly
Still upholding the divinity of Austrian economic theories
when for the last hundred years
the rise of the dollars been all about
demographics & behavioral science
Capital is nothing more than a natural resource
I don't care that you got there first
The aquifer runs wide
please don't poison mine
Profit is nothing but an unpaid cost of labor
Cause I agreed to a certain pay
I must work the rest of my hours as a Wage Slave
Yeah, you could say it was consensual
but don't have much choice
when I got mouths to feed, a checklist of other needs,
and no extra dough to risk buying
exclusivity rights to plunder a piece of Earth
Human Beings: We call ourselves advanced
when we never been closer to death
Human Beings: We fear the government
while proprietors with most control grab up more
Human Beings: I get more joy buying things today
than playing with the things I bought yesterday
Human Beings: Millennial pessimists, riding out the apocalypse
instead of promulgating progress
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 9:10 AM UTC
I tried to block you out.
I cup my hands over my ears,
Sing some immature tune
To keep your memory away.
It didn't work.
My mind still goes,
To the way you touched me then.
To the way your strong, stretched fingers
Traced my childish frame.
To what you made me do.
I still replay a movie in my head.
"It's just a game" you promised.
"All the big kids do it."
No. They don't.
You're so ****** up that you
Were able to convince me that
Something's wrong with me.
I didn't ****** a child.
I didn't lie to and coerce a seven year old
To give into my own deranged needs and desires.
You did that, remember?
Part of me almost feels
Sorry for you.
I know you have your problems
That you were born with
But that is not my fault
And that is certainly not
A seven year-old version of me's fault, either.
I told about what you did to me
When I was fourteen.
Some people say it must have been nearly impossible
To keep a secret like that for seven years.
It was honestly harder for me to break that secret.
Part of me was emboldened.
Part of me started to feel okay.
Until it all happened again.
My ex and I have been intimate
But it is always consensual.
When a friend took advantage of me
Right after some tragic events took place
I didn't know what to do.
I couldn't speak.
I couldn't think.
It happened so fast
But we didn't *****
I found my voice to deny that,
Avidly.
That, however
Is a little less black and white.
The way you abused me, clearly
Was wrong, illegal, and disgusting in every sense of the word.
I understand that.
I do not understand what he did to me
And it has left me more confused than anything else.
I won't lie to you,
I am ****** about what you did to me
Still, to this day.
I would never confront you about it
I love your mother too much to hurt her that way.
I am ****** about what he did to me, too.
I still have the world's hardest time
Going to school, to work, anywhere
Out of fear that I will see him.
When I do see him,
I feel my breaths get short and raspy
And my heart beats too quickly for me to catch up
My body shakes,
And I get an overwhelming nauseous sensation.
However, I am trying to cope with this.
It will not keep me bound.
You never kept me bound.
I am breaking through every chain
That has strangled me like a noose.
I am accepting this
With every bone of my being
So I can move on with my life
So I can teach others
So I can become stronger
No thanks to you.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
I feel like God hates me
Or stopped caring
Ceased to provide
Left for good
And now I'm left here to straighten myself out for better or for worse
I've met people who feel the same way
Who surprisingly have the pincushion audacity to put all the blame of their misfortunes in the absence of the omnipotent one
I just feel abandoned they feel betrayed
Maybe he makes a chump change commission on every life he guides to a certain point then leaves them stark naked at the haunting hour
I know all the preachers and secular teachers lie through their teeth
They win the merit-less hoax award by a landslide
They have no consideration of for the people they mislead or the ramifications their poisoned sermons causes
They use emotionally charged language to increase the parish's numbers
They're terrified of God, they live in fear
And see carpal tunnel as a punishment for ************ and wish blindness upon all those who partake
There is shared consensual hiraeth between those who have been through an invasion of privacy and the trespassing of private property
They want their rights and their guns back
They want their personal space
They retreat to their happy place
Let's go back to the Pantheon of lactose intolerant divine idols
Of epileptic godheads
Who's line of work is about incubated pie pans
Can you make a tutorial that summarizes the resounding reduction of options using nothing but euphemisms?
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
What a terrifying day to be alive
What a terrifying week
What a terrifying year
50 lives lost
No a single rainbow is shining down on us today
I cry for the lives of the people i never knew
and i cry because we never know what those souls could have done for our world
Another day older, but i feel so small
Nothing i can do, but mourn and hope for a better tomorrow
Justice went un served for a victim who spoke out,
and the rest of us cry, because we didn't have the courage
Why cant the world see non consensual *** does not exist
There's only one word for it, and its ****
All the horror going on around me, each tear falling from my eyes is bringing each small ounce of hope and happiness with it
This week i have told myself i don't want to live on this planet,
but that's a slap in the face to everybody who no longer has the chance
Tomorrow i will be a better me, i will honor the lives lost to violence and hate. I will put forth more generosity, kindness, and understanding for the ones around me who lack it. I will not give up. The people committing these horrible acts of violence and intolerance need me to be the best person that i can be.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
How do you have
the audacity to think
that her heart beats for you
When you are the bully
that beats her heart?
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
Bodies were galloping around,
almost forced to breathe in the other's
carbon dioxide due to close proximity.
Mouths were salivating
at the thought of another drink,
another boy,
another girl,
another blunt.
You could smell the stench
of body odor and drugs
throughout every corner of this house
that belonged to a girl whose face
and name i did not know
nor was i cohesive enough to remember even if i did.
In mid thought i felt strong hands
grip my hips and turn me
in the direction of the stairs.
"I'll get you out of here"
the voice said but i wasn't sure
if i had asked to be saved.
The 75% proof ***** in my blood stream
reassured me that it was a friend
not foe
so i let the hands guide me
through the house
up the stairs
through the door
in the bed.
The face i saw was no friend
no foe
just stranger.
Rough stranger,
tough stranger,
my way or your dead stranger.
Tall stranger,
too strong stranger,
i don't care if this isn't what you want stranger.
Forceful stranger,
stealing stranger,
tell anyone and i'll deny it stranger.
They describe in text books
how women should protect themselves
by kicking and screaming and punching,
but they didn't write about
how i wouldn't even try to fight,
how he would spit on me after he was done like a pile of trash,
how i would repeat the word "no" until it was worthless.
I started guessing names
because I wanted to put a name to the hands that defiled me.
Michael, Jacob, Aaron, Eric, Ryan, Brian,
****** bag, ******** **** you
**** you
**** you.
He left me screaming into nothing
because the music was too loud for anyone to hear me.
I yelled at him
I'M SEVENTEEN
I'M SEVENTEEN
I'M SEVENTEEN
Maybe he thought that's what my name was
because he never bothered to ask.
I was Seventeen, but to him I was Consensual.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
Polyam
Polyamory is not a lifestyle it’s an ethos a consensual way that moves us to seek our desires....
Polyamory explodes the feelings of NRE, passion, affection without the constraints of the world or its norms of society.
Polyamory is love, envy, feelings, that motivates compersion, tolerance, acceptance and focus on love.
Polyam is a journey of You and I, our wants and needs to connect and walk together in love....
Polyam
#polyam #polyamory #polylove
Jan 11, 2020
Jan 11, 2020 at 1:06 AM UTC
I buy the gluten-free protein bar, peanut butter and chocolate, because this is who I am now. This is me. This is me as a lighthouse of personal fitness, a man of discipline, of a principle or two. And I surf only the most densely populated dating apps, looking—somewhat feverishly, I must admit—for a likeminded woman, a scholar, a child of the moon, a frequent quoter of the Dhammapada, an insatiable and acrobatic lover, and I imagine her driving the dark streets seeking me. Polly in a Prius. My future muse, near but out of reach. We'll reclaim the arts district. She'll piggyback to the open mike, her ****** shoes clicking in her hand. We'll spend a year politicizing every ****** encounter. Consensual assaults in perpetuity. And she'll say I'm a white man. And she'll say I think this is my privilege. And she'll say she's into leather and she finds my *** offensive and she'll hold my head against the wall. And at the end, if there's an end, I imagine our naked bodies wrapped in a stained comforter, all of the desire spent. I imagine our minds sober and clear, wondering how we could have ever been so kinked out, so on fire for something, and yet so ******* unable to remember a single ****** or whether or not we transcended. I'll vacuum the apartment. Polly will take her Warhol prints, pack up the Prius, and go anywhere, anywhere not here. Seattle. Maybe Portland. A few weeks will pass, and I'll find a note in whatever book I'd been reading before she left. It'll say: I loved you to the max. I loved you to the max. I loved you to the max.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC
My insight and awareness are shallow, to say the least.
The realms of cognition and perceptual familiarity are subject to dogmatised interpretations of political agenda, which salivate with idolatrous and economical intercourses.
Are your activities of a voluntary nature? Then like a lamb to the slaughter you shall march.
A lack of consensual engagement equates to an experience of ****
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 10:31 PM UTC