Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Aaron LaLux Aug 2017
One of her earliest memories,
was that of being *****,
that’s right no foreplay in this poem,
right into it like what happened to her when she was torn open,

one of her earliest memories,
was not of flowers or ice cream or curious cats,
just that which was her grandfathers curious fingers,
***** by the very ones who were supposed to protect her,

painful facts of heinous acts do we have to let that linger,
can’t we just get it out into the open I mean it’s even happened to the famous,
just ask The Cranberries’ Dolores O’Riordan,
or Amy Shumer or Lady Gaga or Gabrielle Union or Madonna or Tori Amos,

or Teri Hatcher Kelly McGillis or Queen Latifah or Pamela Anderson,
or Oprah Winfrey or Fran Drescher, or Mo’Nique, AnnaLynne McCord,
or of course Kesha, Jane Fonda or Ashley Graham ****,
and these are just a fraction of the victims because most women don’t even file reports,

but it’s not just women that get ***** it happens to men too,
Tim Roth Scott Weiland R Kelly Billy Holiday to name a few,
also include Cory Feldman of course and DMX Santana & Tyler Perry too,
I mean to be honest I’ve also been touched inappropriately how about you?

Let’s bring our skeletons out of the closet so we can stop the nonsense of these monster’s abuse.

How is **** so common and constant yet the subject completely oppressed,
I guess it’s kinda exactly like what happens to those that are molested and those that ******,
young girls staying silent while screaming inside and taken advantage of by a member of their tribe,,
as the same man that married the woman that breastfed her mom touches her breast,

in other words,
the man who birthed the woman that birthed her is the one that hurts her,
her grandfather’s curious fingers find his granddaughters innocence,
and she’s not sleeping but still she’s squeezing,
her eyes closed like if she tries hard enough he’ll just disappear and evaporate,

as he fulfills his sickening sense by finding her emptiness in the losing of her innocence…

Why do those closest to us cause us the most harm,
why was this girl more comfortable telling me what had happened to her,
than telling her own family about what had happened,
maybe because the trust was gone and the love was lost because they’d betrayed her,

why does the American Dream,
sometimes feel more like a terrible nightmare,

one where you’re dreaming that you’re being attacked,
but you’re paralyzed by fear so as much as you try you can’t scream,
silenced by the violence that’s personally occurring to you,
and you’re trying to pretend you’re asleep but really all you want to do is awake from this dream…

I guess in a way we all feel sick,
because we all have things we still have to admit,
like how suicide is something a lot of us have tried to commit,
how we all feel sick of it all & don’t know the point was to any of this,

see sometimes,
when you’ve been wronged your whole life you lose sight of what right is,
and honestly I feel exactly the same way sometimes,
which is exactly the reason why I took the time to write this,

just to let you know,
that I love you,
and that I hope,
one day you'll escape all abuse,

when we are pure enough to see clearly,
when we’ve redeemed ourselves enough to earn our halos,
when we finally reach the Heavens,
someday sometime someplace somewhere over the rainbow….

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

author of multiple best selling poetry books
https://www.amazon.com/Aaron-La-Lux/e/B00ODPJAOK
CA Guilfoyle Aug 2012
In Uganik Bay that year the sun never set
I walked the long greening path to the dock
fireweed taller than I shooting summer's sky
Warmth of sun bringing lazy lily's leaning
Little waves splashed breaking cerulean blue
I waited the mail plane, pontooned it flew
Lulling oceans smooth you landed
with eyes that sailed me far-off island stranded
next to you
Float plane to carry us edging mountains, snowy, jagged
Dall sheep, perched asleep precariously rocky hung
Kodiak bears forded rivers we circled streaming on
Deep black kettle ponds no man to touch
snowy patches amid viridian lush
frozen, not to melt
our treasured days of flying
We met again at Hatcher's pass
with hearts to break as fragile glass
a part of love undying
The poor men will rise with the searchlight of God streaming out from their eyes and the sinner shall have this day.

On the *** of the city where the fat cats and pretty boys walk,,where the talk is of bonds and debentures,diamonds in dentures and pearl driven breath,
there,
where the air lingers sad and the crazy man had all the luck he would get,and
standing tight on the floor calling more,give me more as if enough was not a feast,was
Jimmy Malone at home in the square mile and though crooked his smile he was as straight as a die,
he'd say, 'good morning my dear' with a grin or a leer and you knew you'd be faked out or taken down in the trading,but he was honest enough among the shylocks and tough boys who used to be hawkers down in the markets until Thatcher (the plot hatcher) showed them the yellow brick clique down in Threadneedle street,but
now they're just wide boys with big gobs,the new gentlemen fat slobs,pinstriped fat **** wipes who ain't got no time for their roots,all bar Jimmy Malone,
who calls mum and dad twice weekly at home and sends a cheque through the post to the boys club in Sligo where the young lads still go to learn how to live.
This is give and take city where nothing's given freely not even pity,where you're charged for your time by the dollar or the dime and the rich will stitch you sideways which only proves that crime does pay.
It's the sinners who win in the end,
while we're chasing geese they're fleecing us blind,I don't mind that's just life,sometimes I wish I was living it and
not shoveling ****.
AJ Simmons Mar 2018
This cloudy morn of murk,
Where on my tongue I taste dirt,
I should wallow in grey plumes, sir,
But I glide by this dank flirt,

On lady nature lay cobbled stone,
Without shoes we’d feel at home,
But this spring one looks to be known,
In diamond vestments is how we ‘grow’,

As my glide comes to a stop,
And I lay rest in this earthy shop,
Sipping elixirs of generations crops,
I breath I taste tip top,

Chakra advocate with stature,
I see you too truth catcher,
Without shoes, tongue out plan hatcher,
The dew fills your pallet, oh catch her.
Coffee does funny things.
Amanda Kay Hill Apr 2017
She rides the
Train into town
Old days
Old days
Her mother ask her
To go into town to
Get some medicines
And orange juice
Then she hopped
Back on to the train
And going back home
To her mother
At the farm,
After she got
Home and she
Went to go
Milk the cows and
Collect the chicken
Eggs and put some
In the hatcher and
Some in the refrigerator
Old days
© Amanda Kay Hill
03/09/17'

— The End —