"dent" poems
Not quite sure, am I,
Neither certain nor at ease.
I find no resolution
In this step in front of me.
I have no metric measures
To plumb this stormy ocean,
And if I tried to name the weather,
It would match my emotion.
Life is not a picnic,
No matter what some may say
It picks you up and throws you
Bound to dent, nick, and fray.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 6:14 PM UTC
She came home and said
something like
Hey how you doing
But I didn’t tell her
that I have been
indulging in a
sweet and sour
strawberry string
sadness
there is a living ghost
on Facebook
and I can’t decide if
it is wrong to unfriend
the dead
so that I am not reminded
about the countdown
of my own mortality
or of my family
like a sordid experiment
so she said something
about the weekend
which produces guilt
for a spoil I haven’t committed
in the spot in my mind
that is addicted to
a strawberry string sadness
where Netflix plays
and the dent on my side
of the bed becomes more
pronounced
While I try and decide
about a living ghost
what is wrong and what is
right in this media induced
******* that develops from
beta to final release to a total
sadness 2.0
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC
The tin warrior,
Stands tall and strong,
His creator looks in horror,
As his new creation has gone terribly wrong.
The tin warrior was suppose to have no heart,
But no, he came out with a part,
The tin warrior was the key to victory,
Now who ever wins the war is a pure mystery,
Who do they blame for this new creation?
Obviously the one who created all this frustration!
The tin warrior has a half a heart,
Not the best, but it is a start,
Instead of stone cold,
It became pure gold,
Only one person knows why,
And it most certainly wasn't the creator guy.
The daughter of the creator,
She was the one,
She may be a traitor,
But she knows what she had done.
The tin warrior was better than a weapon,
The daughter knew that,
She doesn't regret her choices for a second,
The tin warrior was even better than her father was aiming at.
The tin warrior was build for peace,
His sword pure white,
Not a speck of blood upon it,
To walk he used all his might,
To keep his heart pumping,
He struggled greatly,
What the daughter witnessed,
Make her quite shaky.
You see, a heart was meant for man,
And the tin warrior just wasn't it,
The tin warrior went out with a plan,
So he left a dent in this world,
Letting himself shut down,
Knowing his plan was unfurled,
Everything would be fine without him,
As he did his part,
The daughter was grim,
But knew this was just the start,
The tin warrior saved many souls,
And now it was her turn to achieve the tin warriors goals.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
Somewhere there is a nurse putting clean sheets on what was once someone's death bed. Somewhere there is a police officer laying awake at two in the morning contemplating breaking his thumbs so he won't have to pull another trigger. Somewhere there is a body bag taking the shape of a person. Somewhere a warden has accidentally called a prisoner by their first name. Somewhere there is a man getting ready to pay for his glass of whiskey, his '1 year' AA token falls out of his wallet onto the bar counter. Somewhere the glass is completely empty, somewhere it's overflowing. Somewhere a therapist sitting in an empty session reading the local newspaper's obituary section wondering what she could've done. Somewhere a bullet has fallen in love with a heart, giving a whole new meaning to the 'kiss of death'. Somewhere the girl that never speaks is raising her hand but immediately putting it back down after the sound of her classmates' laughter bounces back and forth from the back of her mind to the front. Somewhere the silence at the dinner table is making a dent in a child's suit of armor. Somewhere a 70 year old man starts skipping instead of walking, he stops taking his medication. Somewhere there is a mother too drunk to sign her daughter's permission slip. Somewhere a man has stolen all of the flowers from a grave, so he can somehow feel as though he's being missed. Somewhere a child is asked what she wants to be when she grows up, she realizes ''myself'' isn't a good enough answer. Somewhere a mirror has been mistaken for a stranger. Somewhere someone is being loved by another person the only way they know how to love; whether it's through kisses, bruises, sleeping too closely to the other, or fifteen missed calls. Somewhere a man is falling in love with the automated voice inside of a voice mail because at least she will listen to him. Somewhere a 911 operator is walking into her house, hearing screams that aren't actually there. Somewhere these short stories are being broadcasted on the news, printed in the paper, whispered to a friend, or rotting in the back of someone's head. Somewhere I am whispering all of these things to a silent room full of people, none of them look up.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
And the circles that I use to cover with makeup
have gotten so dark that not even "industrial strength" concealer covers them up anymore.
it doesn't even make a dent.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
You're just a tiny bit minimalist in your own unique way
a white star I have to squint to see in daytime sky
not a Mercedes five point but a Nissan Micra car
you park neatly in a three point turn by my netsuke
and put a circular dent on my platonic furniture
Your two humble rooms devoid of any bold sculpture
except a fold-out table and a miniature bubble chair
and a futon for a bed which is troublesome to share
you draw the line at adornments but allow a wallflower
A bulb in a bowl is your ornamental garden feature
mealtimes a nibble on grated carrot celery cucumber
you run so long on empty you're an eco friendly teacher
stretching out the energy is a passion of my lover
engaging in lessons on sustaining a resourceful nature
Your shoes two pointe ballet slip ons easy to care
barely there g-string thin cotton underwear
nothing loud to upset your understated figure
slight as a pin drop your bottom's semi-derrière
sits so light on feet I'd swear you float on air
I rarely get to hear you come before you're in my hair
with a voice pitch high as a smitten kitten's purr
your upper reaches get a score sized single 'A'
nice when it fits into our schemes of feng shui
I carry your bundle home on the roadway rivers of light
yet you only burn one ray of candle power at night
born of scintillating atoms which flow along each vein
containing so much love without clutter in your frame
a brave star small as wings formed of minuscule wire
flutters in your eyes with minimal flare
but deep desire
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
we are all rocks. we are built up over many years, influenced by our surroundings as we weather and erode as part of the conditions we are subjected to - the trials that we are put through. we are compressed by the weight of heavy loads. we will be weighed down by our heavy hearts, and crushed by forces of the universe that are bigger than us. we are made up of many sediments, fragments of other rocks. the influence of others. we are the composition of everyone whom we've met, and their impact on our lives. some people leave larger pieces of sediment, while some are smaller than a tiny grain of sand. but they make us who we are today. and we never die. we live on for millions of years, you and me - these rocks are the physical imprints of our spiritual souls on the earth, because everyone affects something in one way or the other. we may not believe it, but believe this: we have the power to change the world - just by being here. we are a part of the bigger picture, a series of rocks that make up part of human history. wherever you go, you will have made your mark. be it just a tiny dent in the soil, or a boulder that fell from a mountain - realise that things would be different if you had not been what you are and gone where you've been.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
<>
you pout and defer, dancing backwards,
claiming, blue is now blackened
from underuse, incapable and incapacitating revival
*saying eyes cannot see, distinctly, neither near or far,
the tremble of love, forgot & distantly absent,
but I know, a heart’s sensory muscles never die,
though weaken they might, underused, un-exercised
denying that inspiration
no longer resides with in thy sensitivities,
has fled, undercover of smoking forest fires
all the diurnal hazards that invade, occupying
my internal spaces once filled by poems
you conceived, birthed, in a pleasured haze,
came so fast, you bare recall agony accompanied,
but not the ecstasy of the end resultant!*
***you know it’s you of whom I write, but,
a note not shaming names, but messages
countless private messages have I sent
begging, beseeching, give me your gifts***
once more, you owe me not, though I
oft irritate with my deafening pleas,
yet only denials continue, my pleas ding
but dent not, the tired fear of your exposition
so speak to you plain,
feed my soul selfish
like in years gone past,
there are holes in mine
that require your elixir,
creamy softness that moistens
my face with tears of your words
originating, astound, enfold**
not later, not soon, not excusals,
write for me NOW, WRITE FOR YOURSELF,
but leave me not forsaken and thirst un-slackened,**
Answer! To whom do you owe your poems?
Jun 11, 2023
Jun 11, 2023 at 11:30 AM UTC
Loudly it sounded,
The horns message clear,
The gods had been warned,
The giants were near.
From Jotunheim to Midgard
To Asgard they came,
Their intent was clear,
Their purpose the same.
Loudly they shouted,
They yelled, and they raged,
The gods and the giants
Were battle engaged.
Thor with his hammer
and Vidar with shoe,
One would think battle
Was all that they knew.
Tyr with one hand
And Frey with no sword,
They should have stayed back,
But of their own accord
Into battle they leapt,
Into battle they ran,
Against the giants
To make their stand.
The moon and the sun,
Luna and Sol,
Went into the bellies
of Hati and Skoll.
Tidal waves crashed
all over the world,
Out of the oceans came
The serpent of Midgard.
Thor ran at the beast,
The great Fenrir Wolf,
But he was soon
In snakes coils engulfed.
Thor pounded away,
He hammered the snake,
But he did no damage,
No dent did he make.
The great Fenrir Wolf
Rushed at Odin,
The god stabbed with his spear,
But the great wolf did win.
Vidar rushed at the beast
With his big heavy shoe,
Kicked in the jaw,
The Fenrir Wolf flew
Away from the battle,
away from the fray,
In the depths of space
The Fenrir Wolf stays.
The gods and the giants,
The battle they fought,
And in the end
it was all for naught.
They destroyed each other,
Each and every one,
And out of the darkness
Came a new sun.
In the sun’s warmth,
A great green was spread,
The great land had died,
And was back from the dead.
Two gods were left,
The young sons of Thor,
They were spared because
they were good and pure.
The gods met with two humans
Who had lived through the strife,
And together they planned
a new and better life.
And for this reason,
The Norse people say,
The gods stay in Asgard
To this very day.
But if in the future
The giants attack,
The gods will come to Midgard,
And they will attack.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 11:50 AM UTC
*"A working man
that's what you are
a young, dependable
not entirely punctual
working man
and you can do anything
with your working hands
fix a tap, wire a circuit,
build a garden wall
or fell a tree
you can do
whatever you put your hands to
you can be whatever you want to be"*
Something breaks
*"with working hands
I'll try to fix it but
it takes time to learn
it takes time
to be good at something
for me
everything takes time
I'm not bad they say
just learning
in my frustration I wonder
what if I'm at full capacity
when there's more to come?
what if I'm just incapable?
destined to be an idle man
with rough, callused
soon to be soft
and useless
working hands"*
. . .
Well I want tomorrow today
so what good are these
working hands anyway?
I work and work and work away
pay my bills
I'm always late with rent
yes, work is overrated and
my pay doesn't make a dent
can't replace all the time I've spent
working with my hands
Isn't it funny
trading something so precious
for something as trivial as money
my brain works over time
day and night
when I get to work
it's like turning out a light
I think less and do more
it's kind of nice
so I think I'll sit tight
and stay on the tools
reject the office jobs
I can have it all
white finger
back problems
an RSI
bad knees
asbestosis
and arc eye
I can get all of them
so long as I try
work really hard and graft away
working man and all that!
who wants tomorrow today
when you can wear a hard hat?
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 2:37 PM UTC
I ended up in the hospital again
I was in a pretty nasty car accident
I was in the hospital for a little while
quite a few bones of mine suffered a dent
they forced me in for about a week
I couldn't wait to leave
however a nurse was transferred onto my floor,
she looked so good, I couldn't believe
myself, I wanted to stay in bed
heart monitor and all
and needles leaving my bed
she did get job admirably, bringing Me food
doing her rounds every single shift she was on
I casually threw a couple of little lines at her, playfully, you know, to give her a smile or two as the day wore on
Well on the last day I was in
the lovely nurse walked into the room
"this isn't your shift?" I said, somewhat surprised
that's when I noticed her hand slide up her thighs...
She walked to the door and locked us inside
I saw a sense of burning lust in her eyes
she walked back to my bed and kissed me long and took away the pain
my God, she was so wet my leg felt as if it was caught in the rain
So I asked "Is this my going away present?"
She replied "Yes my patient, for taking your shots you've earned it"
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
Another slimy page absorbed by gentle, tender hands
Another reality channel infected by impossibilities
Another grainy film shaded by green to hide the truth
All eyes are glued to these perfections
Simple utopias I can never be
Her hair, his eyes, their laugh, that smile
How disheartening it is
for my friends to say one word
when the tags on my clothing say another
A dent here, a scar there, a bulge elsewhere
hips too wide, skin too rough, hair too straight, eyes too red,
toes too small, nose too big, scar too dark, skin too light
My entire being is stitched together faults
So my eyes burn as yours shine
I guess it is yet another imperfection
But then again, are the blemishes even mine?
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
From one lunatic to another
One poet to his friend
We said we should go sailing
Ended up sinking in the end
They said that we were mad
And maybe they had spoke the truth
But the way in which they put it
Was so terribly uncouth
So we left them on the shoreline
Waving backwards with relief
We would ride the incandescent waves
So set in our beliefs
That we would reach the other side
We would become the pioneers
We would find the favoured winds
Across that ocean of our fears
We put out of the harbour
Put our faith into The Boat
We paddled with our hands
And handed our trust to The Boat
But now we’re shipwrecked on a coastline
Full of cannibals and rats
We wanted to put a dent in history
But we’ve barely made a scratch
We went exploring on the island
This unfamiliar place
Got lost in a simple jungle
Brushed away the green disgrace
We found a village of the natives
But we had to pass them by
We wouldn’t sell our heads for hunting
We’d rather run away than die
We found an orchard in the mountains
On a fragrant afternoon
But the fruit it was forbidden
Now we’re servants for the moon
We left home making sense
But just found madness on The Boat
We sailed after our dreams
But just found nightmares on The Boat
They say it’s an affliction
When the moon is shining bright
But to me it’s an addiction
And a goddess given right
To wear left handed trousers
And be gracious in defeat
They think we’re being honest
And we are: that’s our deceit
We wander in the meadows
Softly howling at the sky
We tie ourselves to trees
So we can safely learn to fly
I’d say that I’m a better man
Than I ever was before
But I’m still here on the wrong side
Of that ol’ asylum door
We came here wanting answers
Left our questions on The Boat
We came home with the tide
But left our senses on The Boat
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 5:02 PM UTC
There it is again, the craving.
I can feel it crawling under my skin.
The need to feed is too strong,
I can't move.
Not until I have it.
The poptarts put a dent in it,
But it's not enough.
The cereal, better,
It's coursing through my veins.
I can feel myself getting stronger.
The pepsi, it fuels me,
I can do everything now,
No one can stop me.
I will be satisfied for now, maybe an hour.
Then the urge will return and the cycle will start again.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 7:17 PM UTC
Round and baby smooth
Before the heavy lessons
Now more gold than globe
Earned geography
Topography in bruises
Ridged in blue and black
Fault lines and canyons
Shining yellow Kevlar-filled
Stronger in the cracks
But this recent dent
is a gut-aching crater
that wobbled my world
So, I wait for healing gold
And grow stronger from repair
Sep 8, 2025
Sep 8, 2025 at 3:01 AM UTC
The falling stars in this ironic night
make majesties
out of those cubicle-ridden New Yorkers'
routine Tuesday night daydreams,
where they make macabre escape routes
out of every perfectly-placed window
piercing the concrete sentences
that escalate from Ground Zero.
Your law offices,
corporate ******* headquarters,
are all bursting at the seams
with these drones,
the falling stars of the human race,
all composed of 14 different shades
of grayscale;
could've been
should've been
could've been shootin' stars
that year they were promised
lives of upper middle class incomes
and Lexus dealerships
bought to dent their status
on the neighborhood,
but that sparkle's been emaciated
by the truth,
the underwhelming spectacle of realization
accentuated by the clicking
and the clacking of company keyboards,
each little click
gnawing more at their patience
than the next;
the faceless brush strokes
gawk through that window,
their plans less hypothetical
over the calendar years.
"I can hear it calling me
from miles away,"
says Copy #90045280,
"see, they
SPEAK
to me, man,
tell me to transcend
the hurdle of the windowsill
and make my rendezvous
with an asphalt avenue,
to join the other casualties
of this rut-infested nation
in a life with the real stars,
falling and shooting
and jettisoning alike,
throbbing lights through dark sky silk
and into the hearts of even the most
robotic of this catalog culture,
and I frightfully,
excitedly,
must listen."
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:53 AM UTC
Push back that limp piece of hair behind the thinness of your ears
and look at yourself full on, no make-up, or mask, or paint or picture
just DNA,
yours.
I see waves of songs and lyrics attached to flesh, can you hear it?
That transcendental vocal like a babies cry and a mother tender eye,
a demise too immortal for human opinion.
But I know you hear it too, the other sound of lies that are inescapable
and so pungent it turns milk sour and crushes noses
you take small bites, and pretend to dance
as you listen to that melody as if it was truth
but darling its not truth,
for the acne scars, and full lips, the birthmarks and stolen hips,
flat chest, and dent of skin, is beautiful to me cause I see what's flowing from within
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
So no one told you **** was gonna cost this much (clap clap clap clap) Your jobs a joke, you're broke, Can't even buy some lunch. It's like you're always stuck to scraping rez, But, When you can't afford **** or food, you can thank our Pres-i-dent, But, I will smoke with you, until my baggy is no more, I will smoke with you, like I've smoked you up before, I will smoke with you, Because you've smoked with me too.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
dysphoria can be defined as a general unease or dissatisfaction, a discontent
but dysphoria
feels more like a disconnect
my heartbeat feels more like a defect
when it throbs against my shrinking ribcage I can feel that it's making a dent
dysphoria
comes from a greek root meaning "hard to bear"
it is hard to bear
**** it's hard to breathe
literally
physically
I cannot breathe
I cannot be free
dysphoria is when you have to close your eyes while you shower so you can't see
each breath shakes as it comes out of me
there is medical material clung so tightly to my body
it has become an extension of me
and nothing on me belongs to me
I am trapped beneath waves of what I can't stand to be
my body of water
feels more like an anchor
I am drowning
and you can tug at my spine but you cannot feel me
I cannot even feel me
I would do anything to make these ends meet
dysphoria grabs hastily
a current does not care your worth, it just pulls you under
dysphoria does not care if you deserve better
dysphoria is a disconnect
and I haven't found directions
to the end
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC
The plump moon lights up my room.
My mind is now a flat graph
no desire no lust no dream
the cold winds from the rumbling sea
make no dent on me
I look at my palms
and see the cracked floor
gnarled roots of mangrove on the wall
blend seamlessly with all I have
like once I had her in this room
love together
taking wingless flight to the moon
but now I more like sitting here
prospecting no words to rhyme
not angered at the blankness
for in this vacuous moonlight
I wait without a hope of gain
without a despair of loss
unconstrained for time
contoured by fireflies
alone
recounting a new beginning
from the end.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:00 AM UTC
Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
Thugs with Pens
Hell-bent; not on cultism
Just airing the other sentiments
That don’t make it to primetime
Thugs with pens
Not poking out eyes
Just venting spleen
Sick of the lies
Thugs with pens
Deserve to be heard
They don’t poison your brain
With stacks of *****
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Can change your mind
In ******* time
Thugs with pens
Can make a dent
They don’t need to insert
Un-readable, un-interesting
Covert small print....
Thugs with pens
Don’t need no script writers
Or advisors nor signatories
Witnesses, nor dodgy men
With gold plated fountain pen nibs
To make amends
Or throw in no hidden clauses
That secretly **** your life blood
Thugs with pens
Don’t aim to pierce your skin
But make their mark
Deeper within
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Completely uncensored
champions of free speech
The establishment want suppressed,
silenced, deleted; terminated.
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans don’t
Schedule meetings
To fix the minutes
And schedule another meeting
And keep ‘minutes’
As square angled
And unproductive
As formal conversation
Thugs with pens
Aim venomous ink
At headless politicians
That squawks like chickens
Bending over
For the *************
Bank-beefing corporations,
Controlling the masses
With ***** little catchphrases
And mounds of munitions
And illegally enforced restrictions
On your movement and free expression
Honest men
Have nothing to fear
From Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
These “thugs” seek asylum
From countries
Where the law’s
Not bought and bent
Thugs with pens & aerosol cans
Are made to wear monikers and masks
Thugs with pens
Don’t turn on its own
Neighbours and citizens
To perpetuate myths:
A ****** ************* lie…
A thing that never happened!
(That’s for all of you dumb wits
out there
Who believe most of the ****
That’s drip fed
Your sensation addicted minds
Most of the time,)
Time you started reading between the lines
In fact get a pen
Or an aerosol can
Write your own lines
Start broadcasting
Reclaim your space
Before you’re completely neoned
Into the shade
And corralled under the spell
Of a TV screen
Or an anger raising headline
That conducts the flow
Of the status quo
Load up your magazines
With ball point pens
And sharp edged writing nibs,
Strap on a belt of aerosol cans
Reclaim your right to free expression
In public spaces
Join the rag-tag army
Of intuitive
Self-knowing men
The End: is well begun,
George Orwell
Should never have written
That blueprint,
‘1984’
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
damaged
a word never described it so perfectly
it functions good enough
but wear and tear over time
has taken away the shine
damaged
like scrap parts sold for cars
once it was beautiful and whole
but it sits on its own
and even if it does find another home
or something to complete
it will still stand out
like mismatched socks
damaged
when they look at him they see character
every dent tells a story
of tough times and how they only made him stronger
but in her they see something wrong
a machine broken beyond repair
if she could she would smash her entire being and watch the pieces shatter
because at least something obliviated
doesn’t have a false sense of hope
blindly dragging it along
wondering if one day things can be repaired and the damage be undone
damaged
we don’t know when along the way it happened but it did
and it has altered everything about her
from the way she smiles to the way she sees the world
i wish i could show her how to re-wire her brain so her thoughts can be reset
and the pieces can rearrange until they feel like they are where they’re supposed to be
but she is damaged
i am damaged
a word has never described me so perfectly
damaged
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 12:04 AM UTC
cosmic dust.. blowing in the wind
that's what we are.
remains and debris of impacted rock
that clutters and piles meaningless and purposeless.
just until the moment of gravity or some god-like force
accumulates the lifeless rock and dust into larger objects of mass.
what is formed is just a glimmer, a speck in the whole universe.
a tiny cog in a gigantic network of gadgets and machines.
that is us...
and then Jobs told us to go make a dent in it all…
go and make your mark… and follow your heart
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC
~It's time to let everything go and get my mindset right
Thoughts and confusion consistently put up a fight
~Overcoming the past and focusing on the present
Life's obstacles make sure they leave their dent
~Strength and willpower will lead me through my quest
It is only in the end everyone will see I'm doing my best
~The pride i'll possess from doing it all alone
This will truly show the people I love how I've grown
~This path I'm on will never show what I'm truly capable of
I don't want to look down on my family from the heavens above
~I don't want anyone to stand by me if they don't feel I am capable
I'll just have to show them that I'm ready and able
~I need to show myself how much I love being in my own skin
It's only then that I can tell myself ultimately I'm going to win
~The sickness in the end isn't worth the pain
I want to be prepared for anything, shine or rain
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
You stripped my soul,
Ripped me from my shoes
Where I stood
in innocence.
You extracted my childlike traits,
Treated my body
As your ********* paycheck.
My whole future
Was laid out in front me.
Now you fabricated a dent in it,
One that has shattered me
Forever.
I used to smile,
Be full of life,
Slept at night,
My body never reeked the incessant scent
of the lifeless souls you sold me to.
My heart ached everyday,
I longed for home, where safety was waiting for me.
Everyday I was a raindrop,
Trying to cling onto the window of hope,
But always slipped away.
You don’t understand the pain,
You’re only in it for the hunnits
Please understand,
That my dehumanization is not worthy
For what you gain.
My body became an abstract canvas,
For your ugly pleasures.
Bruised, bloodied, beaten, and battered.
Cuts and aches line my delicate skin,
But to you all my pain is fake.
You slapped my delicate face,
every time I asked for my precious prize of my childhood,
every time clear oceans surged out of my eyes.
“Shut the hell up!” You yelled
As I let out wails of agony.
You stepped all over me
Like I was a used cigarette.
You ignored my shrieking screams,
Actually,
You loved it.
You forced me
To comply with their beastly gratifications,
Only in return for your abundant riches.
You stepped on me,
like I was a ***** grimy, muddy puddle,
over and over
Even so,
I was still considered desirable.
I am NOT your canvas.
I am NOT your paycheck.
I am NOT your plaything.
I am worthy of honor,
worthy of respectful awe and delicacy.
I did not feel the worth of a human being anymore.
I felt ill treated, broken, bent, demeaned.
You stripped my soul, and,
Deprived me of my self respect.
And I will never
Ever
Be the same.
The only thought
That seeps into my mind
At sunrise and the brink of midnight,
Is that
I
Was someone’s *****
Listen to the pleas of
Children,
their ribbons shriveling up.
Spouses,
their vows rupturing.
Siblings,
their hearts torn apart.
Parents,
Bawling for their sanities,
Waiting to rejoice
With their miraculous bundles of joy—
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 11:13 AM UTC