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Carolyne McNabb Sep 2017
I stand accused.
Accused of a crime I most surely committed.
A crime of the most heinous issue.
More appalling than a sickness transmitted.
The accuser claims I have destroyed my family,
because of my crime.

What did I do?

What was my crime?

I spoke out when I was molested.
Molested by my dear, innocent cousin,
who could not possibly have done wrong.
I was molested.

I did not point fingers
or name names at first.
I simply said "I will stay in a hotel this visit."
But you cannot remain vague with family.
Family has a way of enticing your confessions.
They demand to know your sins.

I stand accused.
Not of a crime, but of a plot.
A plot to destroy my family with evil thoughts.
I am a trickster whose pleas are refused.
I stand accused
of being molested
in a world that says "Get over it."
and a family that screams "Who should trust you?!"

I was molested,
and I stand accused.
Help from Lady Justice refused.
Innocence Molested
Innocence has been molested, thrown in dust bin
Just without any sin and just without any crime
The only sin of little girl was to get education to win
The laurels in days to come to serve in her prime

Morality has gone to dogs and dogs are but stray
Their masters are trying hard to save them for brutality
Shameless creatures are hidden in their ***** way
But this time they will not be safe for but heir hostility

Zainab was ***** and killed in the age of just seven
While her parents were on holy journey to Makkah
So sweet a girl being a martyr she embraced heaven
Her chastity purity were converted by rascals to saga

Criminals must be hanged till death for their ***** sin
Little girl be given justice with exemplary punishment
No more little girls be molested ,thrown but in dust bin
Corrupt elements be annihilated as declared and meant

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2018 Golden Glow
Veronica Jul 2016
Being molested as a child
Is something so digusting,
Knowing my mother knew
And told me never to say anything and kept herself quiet,
Makes me grow more anger against her
Makes me want to wish her the worst
Like i do for that molester,
Hate the fact that now that i had the courage of speaking up,
No one in my family had my back,
I feel so sad and alone,
Because i notice that the family i had
Was not a family at all,
I wish they were all in my shoes
And feel the way i do
See things through my eyes
And see the scars he left behind,
Wish they felt the way i do at times.
Where i feel my body disgusted
And cant be touched,
Wish they would go through what i go through
Where i cant let my partner love me
The way i wish i could be love,
When my partner touches me
I feel used
I get this ***** feeling
And start feeling blue.
It hurts me to know that once i told who i thought was my sister,
What her husband had done to me
Her response was "it is what it is."
From that moment on,
that sister died
And was erase from my life,
I hate anything that has to do with them
I cant even stand hearing their names,
Honestly i hope you guys the worst
And dont judge me for i am who i am thanks to this monsters that i had to be raised by
Im just glad i have part myself away,
Because i dont want my kids
to go through what i did.
I will always speak for them
For i dont want to be that monster
That never did anything.
I was molested when i was little like around 5 or 6 maybe even younger but my memory can only remember that far .. anyways i was molested and told my mom when i was young and again when i was 16 years old and she told me to stay quiet. I told her i was going to tell my dad and brother and she scared me off saying if i do they would go to jail because they would **** that pervert. She said i would come out on the news and no guy would want to be with me. Because i was molested. Now as an adult i had the courage of speaking she still tried to insist not to say anything but i told her she doesnt control me anymore i told her nothing is going to scare me and the whole family needed to know who this pervert really was. She now says she didnt say anything because i was 16 years old and i was old already. I honestly hope that lady who i called mom and that person i called sister and her nasty husband the worst and im glad she and the one who i thought was "my sister" is out of my life. I cant ever forgive them. That lady who i also consider My mom keeps being that evil person helping anyone that wants to hurt me.
Jackeline Chacon Aug 2015
I look in the mirror
And all I can see
Is a little lost girl
Staring at me

I reach her hand
But she starts to fade
I can't undo all these
Mistakes I have made

I was innocent once
I can still hear her voice
The way she cried stop
But she had no choice
Blake Jul 2018
He had his tongue in my mouth
I was new to this and went along with it
He layed me down
I thought about my classmate in the front seat
He moved his hands up too high
I didn’t want to cause any drama
He put his hands under my shirt
I silently tried to push them away
He was stronger than me
I kept pushing his hands away
He felt me up anyways
I faked like I didn’t mind, while I smiled, tried to gently push him away,
He stopped and said “please”
I was silent
At one point he also tried to put his hand down my jeans
I pushed back harder than I’d done the first time.
The classmate in the front took a video
I looked like I was enjoying myself
I wasn’t
My friends saw it
I felt sick
People got mad at me for denying that I enjoyed it
I wanted to cry
My best friend didn’t believe me when I told him I was violated
I remembered when he said he’d protect me

Why didn’t you say no?
I was in shock
Why didn’t you get out of the car?
He was on top of me
He said “please” why didn’t you say No?
I was scared of making him mad.
Why didn’t you tell anyone?
I didn’t want them to know
Why didn’t you press charges?
I just wanted the whole thing to go away
Why did you pretend you were enjoying it if you weren’t?
I was scared, in shock, I wasn’t thinking clearly, maybe I thought it was safer than him doing it by force.

Why can’-
I don’t need to answer your questions
I was violated
I don’t care if you agree or not
Please
Stop making me relive it
Patricia Tsouros Mar 2014
A flawless red curve of
Seductive lips
Your bold tongue
On the cusp of mine
I savor your words
Reckless declarations
Breathed down my throat
Slashing my soul
A wound that won’t heal
Exposed to the memory of
*******
Memories that make it my ruin
The way you wrenched my heart
Racked my mind
Molested my soul
The desolation you left me with
When you were done

I look for Pink
To comfort and inspire
My emotional essence
You will see if you
Look into my eyes.
Heidi Shavill Jan 2013
Small and insignificant...
Inferior.
Insecure and shameful...
Clumsy.
Weak and sad...
Molested.
Unremarkable and transparent...
Mundane.
Unlovable and ugly...
Hated.
Remedial and simple...
Stupid.
Angry and jealous...
Loathsome.
Lovesick and lonely...
Desperate.
Sick and Tired...
Old.
Unstable and self-destructive...
Insane.
Vulnerable and trusting...
Suicidal.
Hopes and dreams...
Deteriorating.
Smiling and Laughter...
Remedy.

Heidi Shavill
2008
Larry Potter Jul 2013
I was hungry enough to eat the **** end of a skunk.  I felt like gobbling the whole mound of concrete that is half an hour closer from becoming a part of my room.  Make that a quarter. I guess my tummy has had enough grumbling, like a seething network of volcanoes ready to devour Hawaii.  I am sure as exhausted as a zombie after a “battle of life and death” handling a plethora of carpentry tools which I have managed to rummage from our dismal basement.  I’m quite serious with the phrase “battle of life and death”.  I get to have this Obsessive Compulsive Syndrome which gulps a huge amount of my rhythm compelling me to put things in place especially in my chamber.  At times, a weltered pen could instigate an emotional havoc.  Or perhaps an inappropriate collaboration of curtain hues and mattresses would be ample to spin the color wheel concept out of my brain.  But now, my walls have done it.  Well, it was just a microscopic sight of a divine crevice, but how in the world could that escape my eyes?  Without a second thought, I approved an avid proposal from my subconscious – a full concrete room renovation.  And that’s how it brings me here, smothering the last square inch of the genius blueprint with this porridge of lime and clay, the hell with chemistry!  I have found out that my room has achieved the piquancy of a sizzling summer noon, thanks to the mist of dust and the precipitating drops of sweat that come tingling down my overheating body.  Ah! At least my system tells me that I’m not a promising patient of ****** dysfunction.  When the last patch has been perfectly planed in place, I drew my last ounce of pure strength and plunged into my most formidable bed, congratulating myself for a job well done. Alas! A thirty-minute nap and I’m ready for a superb coffee and doughnut delight.

I woke up from a cat’s screech. I peeped through the window. The nap breaker was a Cheshire, one with a dimmer fur, the stripes of gray suppressing the darker color.  Its tail enjoyed dancing around its rear, connoting either fear or excitement. It sure has a distinctive mischievous grin.  The feline was on the verge of climbing up the roof by jumping from a gutter about five feet away.  It seemed to have slipped but has managed to bring its **** next to the roof tiles. It stared at me with intent, giving me the macabre look from its glaring eyes.  It’s as if I’m being watched, stalked and examined in a way I couldn’t see, bringing me that feeling of guilt, of remorse.  Urgh! That’s why I hate cats.  Though I’m planning to keep one, I’ll reconsider it.  But what pains me more is to discover that my alarm was not able to do the job and so I slept three hours more than planned.  I looked down and saw the city lights flashing one by one, the beams glowing like a barrier of radiance diffusing into the gloom of the night. I guess this was the price I have to pay. I traded my snack with a peaceful hibernation, turning the coffee into a glass of iced tea and the doughnut into a great dinner with me, myself and I.

I have learned to cook since I was ten.  My mother believed that culinary prowess could be inherited from generation to generation.  And so, she put her trust on me and I haven’t failed her ever since.  This gourmet brilliance proves to be very useful at times of solitude when you got bored of ordering other’s recipes and decided to make your own buffet.  I remembered her telling me that all food would taste good if there is the chef’s heart flavored in it.  Cooking is an art, combining the loops and the whoops of seasonings and spices to the medley of meat and herbs.  Tonight, I decided that my dinner would equal breakfast, satisfying the grudge that I got from skipping my  diabetic snack attack.  A beef stew and a side of paella made my stomach die in joy, appeased at last that my gears are energized for my routinely nocturnal bookworming activity.

I normally hide under my sheets at nine but tonight, I shall break the rules. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll fix the rules next time. Just this time to spare for I have gained interest on this book entitled “100 Years of Solitude”, talking about how one could live happily even alone, just by creating the world you have ever dreamed of. Gabriel García Márquez is dumping the “no man is an island” concept which anyway sounds inspiring to me.  Finally, I jumped into bed thanking Him for letting me outrun another day living alone in a comfortable apartment, free from all sorts of vexation.  I wished for a better life at school, which gives me an imagery of dull monochromatic memories.  I am not that famous but I can be someday.

A heavy beam of sunlight pierced through my window, refracting on the ***** white floor and creeping up to the mahogany table just right at the corner.  It intercepted with the glass pyramid and created a beautiful prism that glittered all around my room.  It was a really majestic scenery, one that I luckily happen to see every morning, a good optic background, I guess. Two hours before class time – that’s where my pattern starts.  Take a bath, eat, brush teeth, groom, check the doors and power, then I’m off to go. Everybody follows a certain kind of pattern, that’s for sure. Whether you wear different types of clothes everyday or use competing brands of toothpaste, clothes are clothes and toothpastes are toothpastes.  As humanity finds more and more complexities in life, they become wired to doing the things and involving the events which they think would give happiness to them and simplify their equation of life.

As a proof, there’s Mrs. Lanny Honeycut from the house next door. She usually sprinkles her daisies every ten in the morning, wearing that friendly neighborhood smile. On their patio, you could never miss a day seeing her husband, Mr. Blake Honeycut reading the daily papers with a round of tea, jam and bread spread on his table.  On the busy intersection stands traffic enforcer, Red Mayer, waving his arms to and fro while wearing that aura of valor, never seem to get tired of doing the same thing over and over again. Thousands go out for work and go back to sleep everyday and that's the status quo we're talking about. Even inside the academic arena, you can still hold on to that thought; I mean the size of the population doing the same pattern at the same time – my schoolmates, enemies and… friends? Well, I’m not quite sure with the last one, but it’s this: they all make a fun of me.  They say I’m a dork, a nerd, a geek, a freak, and etc.  I wonder if they mean everything that they say or say everything that they mean.  Either way you put it, I’m not buying it. I am not what they say I am.  I just like being alone and that’s where I do best.

And as always, the school is crowded with busy people rushing through the corridors. Others are beating the deadlines while some are happy they could breathe for another break. But no matter how busy everybody could be, there is always a time spent for “information dissemination” or chitchats. But only this time, the topic discussed is the same.  I could hear it on the entire campus, everywhere in the perimeter. Another student in the university is missing leaving no trace of existence.  It’s been going on like this for over two months now and the university council has taken their best courses of action to unknot this mystery while campaigns have been running on TV’s and vigils were spent. Not that I don’t care but it seems that this is also happening to other places, I mean, this is not the only school where maniacs could exist and become professional serial rapists in the making. By the way, this is already the 12th case on the record. Weren’t people overreacting to the issue? Isn’t the case overrated? Did they reject the possibility that these people ran away because they got pregnant, messed up or something like that? Soon, the university area was covered with security troops roaming around like a swarm of bees, buzzing and sometimes boozing all the time.

I guess that’s what happens when you hang out too much with friends who are just jesters plotting your own jeopardy. I don’t think it would be good at all to be bothered with things like that because sometimes, it’s also useful not to have any use at all.  Like the king being admired by his kingdom amidst his sloth and compromises.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not friendly anymore. Actually, if it happens that I got company, I would magnanimously offer a treat at my place.  But the thing is, who would likely do that? I’d cross my fingers on it.

Wishes do come true even for a loner like me.  I think I have a fan. No, that would be too sublime. She’s hot and she’s hotter when you’ll know she’s so cool. Quite a paradox, but that’s just reality.  We came to know each other on our lab class. Her name’s Athena, fitting for her twisted logic and good humor. It makes me burn a lot of calories when I talk to her more than a 5-mile marathon could squirt. We were lab partners and we get along well. I just couldn’t figure out where she got the courage to befriend me. I do regard myself as unwelcoming species, but I might work on it when someone tries to knock the door. We juxtapose ideas. Yes, that’s what makes our conversations spin like a merry-go-round. But we enjoy it nevertheless, evident by the crescent smile we both generate out of the craziest topics in store. Once, she interrogated my way of settling wars with enemies. Well, I told her it was my habit of treating them to my house and giving them souvenirs to show how sorry I could be. She snickered and her eyes glowed like the Andromeda and her face shun the whole universe. Oh, I can do this all day long, if only I got hold of time and space.

Today, she asked me if it would be okay if she’ll stay at my place till nine when her dad could be home and she would be able to call her and ask to pick her up. She reasoned out that otherwise, the night would be scary because she’ll be alone in their house, no company, no security. I was puzzled how the thought of being alone could scare her. It is like freedom from any constraints, no ties, and no limits. But I couldn’t blame her. She’s too fragile, too vulnerable to handle it with herself.  With the speed of the light, I accepted the favor.  Well, that goes even without saying.

It was past six thirty when we arrived at my immaculate apartment. It’s great to be an“ OC” sometimes, I said to myself.  I thought of a winner dinner, one that would make her visit worth reminiscing. I preferred Italian.  I cooked her lasagna and drenched the dinner with sherry. We talked a lot until we run out of resorts. I guess she planned it, or I planned it, synergy perhaps.

The clock ticked nine and there’s no sight of her father’s getaway car. But there’s no sign of worry in her countenance either. I surmise it didn’t reach her inkling yet to phone her dad.  She was busy dissecting my kitchen and living room with her very playful eyes. That doesn’t trouble me though. That’s just as instinctive as any other first time guest could get. She grappled her attention on my antique collection of prehistoric movies, like the Scarlet Letter, The count of Monte Cristo and the likes. She happened to love them too. Well, that makes her more beautiful to me, other than the satin white dress she wears. Suddenly, she got the impulse of going to my room. She said there’s nothing more exciting to see than a gentleman’s bedroom. I startled from the request, but before I could say anything, she leaped straight to my chamber with the gestures of an imp. It’s weird to be in this kind of circumstance because I don’t often invite a lot of visitants to my room. I ain’t no hotel crew, bowing down and waving his hand to the chamber’s destination and leading the VIPs to their cabins. Yet this time, it’s the other way around: it’s my cabin.

But now it’s too late to stop her. She molested the **** and I giggled for some reason. Finally, the door opened a crack and a bend of light escaped from inside. She stepped in, and I followed. She was filled with awe not because my room is all made of gold nor did it resemble a royalty’s den. It was the exaggerated neatness and order that greeted her. In some unknown vortex of my deepest imagining, it made me feel like I’ve been through this instance before. The flashback is not so vivid as it appears, but something tells me this isn’t the first time. Deja vu could be working on it, I infer,although I don’t really believe in those forms of conceptualizations. Perhaps it’s the sherry’s spell infiltrating my mental prognosis. But something, I guess, isn’t really right.

I caught her opening a red box that was hidden behind my cabinet. I tried to steal it away from her but she fought back and it came tossing down the floor. Numerous items spilled from the case. A purple head band with the glittering initials ANNE, a ruby embedded bracelet, and a Nokia handy phone exposed the secrecy. This isn’t going to go along well and fine, I guess. A strong surge of desire came from my core. It tried to envelop my entirety and control me like a lifeless puppet. I felt the tip of the pyramid glass in my hand and I succumbed to lose my consciousness.

Morning came and it felt better than ever. It was a ***** Saturday. There she lies beautifully on the deck, like an immortal bud of red rose trapped in golden amber. The cellophane fits her well, and there’s no doubt she’ll be complaining anymore. I already prepared a cozy place for her deep sleep: A 5x2 feet wall engravement which I was busy molding last night. It wasn’t easy making her go to bed but still it ended up smooth and sound. I helped her get up and fitted her in place.I turned on the radio as I reached for my dear carpentry tools. The news was still nailed on it. But this time, the missing case struck for the 13th turn. Ahh, the hell with society! They never really get a way to deal with it.

I was busy patching the last mound of concrete that is half an hour closer from becoming a part of my room. Make that a quarter. I guess there’s no end to this divine crevice issue. It must be following a pattern too. But I can handle it, thanks to this vicarious personality. I wonder if I could get the chance to invite another visitor in my place. But if I do, I would certainly offer the best treatment they could ever have.
NitaAnn Aug 2013
Really? Well, don’t be, because it doesn’t help to be sorry. Sorry doesn’t change it. Sorry doesn’t make it go away. Sorry doesn’t “undo” what’s already been done. Sorry doesn’t erase my memory. Sorry doesn’t take away the searing pain in my chest. Sorry *****! I don't want your pity or to hear that no child should ever have to endure what I did. Because **** happens. It happened to me …it happens to millions of other kids. Shoulda…woulda…coulda…

You’re right – I do have so much going for me. I have an education, a career, financial security – the beautiful house w/the picket fence, the 2 kids and the dogs. And it’s all a huge sham! You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl. And that’s what I’m to be commended for??? That doesn’t make me special. I should be commended because I have an education? Things could sure be a lot worse, huh? I could be a crack ***** living on the street with 10 kids in foster care, unable to afford therapy even if I wanted to go. I could be like “them”.

Wow! I’m so awesome. Yay for me! Kudos to the smart chick that spent years being molested by her father and ACTUALLY made something of her life. It’s a miracle!

It’s all such a sham – a dog and pony show. Smoke and Mirrors, my dear! Put on a stylish outfit, and  paste on a cheerful smile, and everyone thinks you have it all together….. No one would ever know different. You wouldn’t have known. If I’d have kept my big fat mouth shut!!!!! I should have known better….I should have sat down and weighed the risks, possible opportunities, the roadblocks the problems, and definitely a cost analysis of plan A – trying to work through the ******* of the past, B – continue to live in denial, C – **** myself. …. That’s what a smart business woman would have done. And after all, I’m super smart, huh? A real genius!
Jacob Apr 2014
The girl with purple hair is sitting at my bar again.
I think she is beautiful. And not in a way that I wanna have awesome *** with her but in a way that I want to drink chocolate martinis with her
and go shopping for christmas vests that have tinkly bells and possibly polar bears with hats on them.
She is having a full-body cry. I am the worst bartender, simply
because I don't know how to counsel people without crying back at them.
She is crying about the state of women.

I know that we come from the same rotting wood, so all I do is nod.

"How is it that three quarters of the women I know have been ***** or molested?
What does that say about the men that I know?
**** is not a man behind a bush with a knife, she laughs
It's kissing you on the mouth like whiskey at a nice bar."
The girl with purple hair and I are holding hands now,
"I only wanted an apology,
an acknowledgement of what occurred."
Grappling as artists, as girls, as ships in bottles,
how do we change any of it?
I tell her I am going to write a poem.
She says no one wants to hear a **** poem.

And I know she's right.

Have you ever seen a stampede of horses?
Do you wonder what the hooves look like from underneath?
Have you ever tasted the blood from biting your own lips because you couldn't say no enough?
"I never fought back. I kept my thighs tight and
closed, but once he's inside you, you wish you were the streetlamp, the
store clerk, a street lamp, a bed of calla lilies-

anything but a woman.

In that moment, our eyes glaze over, and they stay that way for years.
That's when you've lost.
A poem by Mary Lambert, from the poem-book, "500 Tips for Fat Girls"
Mother always called me the devil child
She said I was  loud, destructive and wild

Parents told sister I was bad and she didn't ever have to play with me
Much time alone was no fun, however for some friends I did make a plea

I'd beg for my mothers attention, she'd run off to her room crying,
Yelled for my dad to come get me, because to her I was very trying

I heard my mother double dog dare my father to hit me
Mother would refer to me as a **** in front of the family

When I was very young mother once said “I will ****** you in cold blood”
Today mother said “you’re crazy, I’d never say that to a child, you are crud”

Nothing I did would ever please my mother
Gifts I bought her were tossed in the gutter

All my cousins were smart, while I was failing all my classes in school
Got into many fights with bullies and teachers who were always cruel

My family would all make fun of me, call names bully and teased
I was the loser that anyone could do or say what they pleased

None of my cousins was I ever allowed with to play
Was always much of the time alone every and all day

I lived in a strange way my dad was very to the T religious
And my mother was always drunk and of course blameless

She’d drink when home from work, on the weekends or holidays
And could always hide it from all her friends and the relatives

No one believed me when I told them that she had been drinking
They acted like I was crazy by then I knew what they were thinking

Mother took me out Friday's to eat and buy what I wanted, after work
Last stop, the liquor store for drink and smoke, was left in car like a ****

Mother would always drive with me while she was drunk
I knew she'd been drinking because she smelled like a skunk

Bought games that took two to play, parents never had any intention  
Of spending time with me, I was a bad child needing intervention

If I didn’t act a certain way when opening all my very expensive Christmas gifts
She’d pout, leave, and I’d have to open my gifts alone because I’d created a rift

Wasn't  perfect I admit;  ran off when 16 regret parents sent me away,
Came for counseling I complained about moms drinking, she felt angry

Said drinking not my problem, she’d return when I could face the truth
Never could admit wrongdoing, everything was because I was a youth

Home from school one day mom was passed out on  floor drunk
Called 911 her Dr blamed me and said no visit,  he called me a punk

My dad arrived home, find she was throwing up while passed out in bed
He'd take bowls put them near her mouth to catch it,  something I'd dread

He’d walk to the bathroom, empty the bowl and go back to get the next one to do the very same
And replace the unfilled one repeat the process.  I was told by her doctor that I was the blame

Sometimes mom would run down the hall to the toilet bowl throw up then my heart would race
Because I always knew mom would do this and then she’d come to room to scare rant and pace

Since I was a badly spoiled child who had parents with money, nice house cars and good jobs
And I was not willing to help out or be responsible, was told I made the family look like slobs

My sister let her boyfriend talk her into letting him take me to dentist, instead, he molested me
No one believed me because in the past I had lied about things, and the truth no one would see

I was different all the cousins, my aunts and uncle could blame me when things went missing
Or went wrong I was then and still am now the perfect scapegoat yes about it I’m still babbling

My father ran out the back door when he heard me wake up and come out of my room
So he didn't have to  bother with me, I wanted to spend time with him he’d assume

Somehow I managed to graduate from high school and I then would move
To a different city, I felt I might have better luck and my life would improve.

Married two very bad guys both who drank, beat me and verbally abused
Divorced them both and had one child and how I’d raise this child alone I was confused.

Moved into an apartment I still today about it rave
Mother always referred to it as a little dark damp cave

Things I wanted my mother to do with me she would say no
But wouldn't turn down a chance with other family to go

But this home where I've written articles, poetry that's been published
Most of the things I've written, mother has said they are mostly *******

Tried to work and go to school never was competent enough to follow through
Each time I would start either I did not have the ability to complete anything new

My daughter grew up, became ill with a repeating debilitating disease
I dedicated myself to getting her well, and nothing about it was a breeze

Had to take her in pain for doctor visits many times she’d cry and wished she were dead
This broke my heart with no family help, just her and I to face things in the years ahead

Unable to attend school for years, the doctor signed permission to stay home
School system assigned a teacher who was mean nothing about her was tome

School Social workers interfered
And my name they smeared

She finally one day went into remission
And now the Nephrotic kidney condition

Seems, for now, to have forever gone for good away
For years it’s been don’t want others to downplay

For a while, I home schooled her and the first semester back in the public school
She was on the honor roll things seemed to be looking up and I felt like I was the rule

Then one day she lost interest in classes, homework, and attending
And the principal of the high school was calling and threatening

Took her out of school and put her in to get her GED
Then  she was soon graduated within month of three

A year before she was supposed to graduate
I knew by then that I was doing things right

Enrolled me and her in community college we made the Dean’s list and no student loan debt
Last May she and I graduated have a new life now I don’t feel things in my life are a threat

Alone I’ve raised a good child, published a book and kept things together
I’ve published some poetry and stories in that will be on web pages forever

Even though my parents have helped me out once in a while financially
I feel lack of respect since they helped family who treated me crummy

I’m still feeling and have most of the hopeless thoughts when I was young
I still try to steer my daughter to be different from me and hold my tongue

Sister divorced husband for molesting children told kids I was bad
Lives in my town and over 20 years never talked, by her, I've been had

I think it's because my parents never would face reality or admit
To any wrong doing of years of abuse, something I couldn't forget

Mother has disowned me going to court to remove my name
Because she said I've caused her embarrassment and shame

I'm damaged goods, only go to doctor and for groceries to shop
I hide inside and on computer, write stories and poems till I drop

Why am I talking about this after all these years still?
Because I think that it may just possibly help me to heal

Looking back I find so many things have not been my fault
But I still feel many days like I'm the only one under assault.

Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Am not proud of this but I had 30 jobs that I lost in 10 years and even tried going to college
Unable to remember how and when to do things, my head from years of abuse was in a fog
Larry Potter Jul 2013
A cumulonimbus caused the gloom that day. It went shedding drops of rain that looked like bead of pearls glittering in the grey autumn sky, vanishing as they plunge on leafless laurel trees and solitary cypresses. He watched them dance to pitter-patter on every umbrella that opened towards the heavens, their colors of rich black calling out to such empathy. Finally, the drops kiss the graze of withered grasses and thirsty dandelions, reviving their foliage and greenness. Slowly, the rainfall collect to become one with soil and mud crawled down to the six feet depression where a coffin was laid. It was white like ivory and carved with elaborate insignias as a token of love and undying memories. Soon, it was all covered with crimson roses that carry the last parting words of the bereaved. The priest waved out his hands above with mournful eyes, lisping his beseeching of earnest favors while spades of loam filled up the burrow. He saw faces of despair around the pit, gasping for reprieve and sympathy. If only the rain could also bring back her life, he implored.

This, in his senses, was belongingness. This, in his heart, was death.

It had been two long weeks since Roxanne’s death and Vincent couldn’t get his feet back on the ground. He still couldn’t believe he had lost her and that their seemingly endless love has flown away from him for all eternity. He’d make believe that this was all just a dream and at some point of this nightmare he would finally be unchained and awakened. Days became niches of shackled memories that kept haunting his love-fletched soul and nights were nothing more than a requiem of lovelorn longings that still linger in his mind. He remembers it all, the feel of her name on his lips, the smell of her hair, and the sound of her laugh. Everything is still as fresh as the dewdrops of June and as vivid as the most cinematic imagery a mortal could immortalize. The ultimate fight of this melodramatic transition was to remain whole when all the strength Vincent has built up begins to crumble by a mere reminiscence of the tragedy that gets freeze-framed from beginning to end over and over again.

It was a rainy Friday evening on the 22nd of May and everyone’s feeling the smell of the weekend rush. Vincent was already at a friend's house party and called Roxanne that he’ll be waiting. Roxanne was driving the Lexus behind a small truck that seemed to plod toward the upcoming red light. She was a few minutes late on her way and watching these two people ahead of her jabber away in that truck was getting her out of her ecstatic  mood. The light turned green, but the truck too slowly moved forward. Roxanne became frustrated as the driver fixated to the right. He visibly gasped at what was just about to come into her view. A brand new grey-blue Chevy Silverado blazed through the opposing stop light to broadside his little truck. Roxanne tried to stop, but her car slid into the Chevy's rear side and went tossing down the highway to an explosion.

All these is what Vincent needs to drown himself to agony. It’s as if Atlas gave up the bearing of the world for him to endure. Wretched and perplexed was he, blaming the world for such a prejudiced conspiracy. How could an angel like Roxanne be bound to such an end? How could an invincible love become vulnerable on the visage of death? But then again, his heart starts to concoct a spell of phantasm, bringing back the most prized memories of him and her together, infiltrating his whole system and gaining power over the bitterness and pain. In this test of sensations, he himself wasn’t sure if this two-edged delusion is a boon or bane. But one thing was becoming clear to him-he cannot be like this for the rest of his life. If this nightmare must be proven real, he must find a way out. Whatever may lie ahead, he must keep going, recreate his own world and be able to break free from the fetters of this mishap that surely promises him nothing but living scars, frustrations and sorrow.

Two years have passed and the town of New Hope has undergone a lot of changes. New coffee shops and cafes run down a block away from the University premise as well as convenient stores and parlors. New establishments stood welcoming and billboards mushroomed the skyway. The streets are crowded with more and more busy people, indicative of a metropolitan evolution of lifestyle. Summer has ended and without a trace, the arid autumn and the frigid winter fluttered to oblivion.

The same is true for New Hope University which, in its current enrollment period, has its student population increased by two thousand. The institute’s remarkable performance rating in board examinations and national competitions attracted other towns to invest their education to the latter. It was nearly the start of class and everyone is busy catching up the enrollment pace. But not Vincent, who, in the first day of inception has already completed the enrollment process. He was ecstatic, more of curious how his life as a senior student could turn into this academic year. He met faces of different kinds-some familiar and some entirely strangers. Those he doesn’t recognize would just pause and pay a smile while others he knew jsut pass by and make him feel invisible. On a ledge in front of his course department’s office he sat. He in himself was New Hope town in human transfiguration- braver, brighter and better. He looked from afar, with eyes playing on the nimble of heads and shoulders of people passing through the corridor. He drenched himself to an illusion of how each head turns toward him with a infectious smile, that once in a while, happiness is sought even in the gallows of solitude. Solitude-it wasn’t a strange name to him anymore. It never was. He was entangled with it on that day the sickles of death took his love away. Somehow, through the passage of time, the wound that was scourged deep in his heart has mended and the thought of being alone became amusing that he has managed to laugh about it over the seasons. He is more human now, away from the devious portal of his mundane imagining.

The daydream was shattered when out of the blue a silhouette of a familiar figure took the stage. She was elegantly tall, with hair of pure ebony lolling on her shoulders. Each step enraptures, and each gentle sway of a hand is a compelling rhythm. She draws closer to where he was and he's left slack jawed. She entered the office and he was back to his senses. Maybe not. What he beheld was something farfetched, something that he cannot comprehend. Vincent saw it all coming back to him. A remnant of his long buried love has come to life. It was Roxanne and it is more certain than breathing. He couldn’t explain what he felt. It was a maelstrom of joy and surprise, of hope and fear. It was the face he yearned to see, so long that the yearning turned to hate and despair. But now that it came to pass, his humanity fell apart. Although he is a mere victim of his own circumstances, the serendipity took a shot straight to his heart and there is nothing he could do about it.

Perhaps there is, and he is now pretty preoccupied. He wanted to know her. He must unknot this puzzle that has challenged his whole conviction. He must find every answer and throw all of its questions behind. Whatever there is that the road has in store for him is not essential anymore. He couldn’t care less to fathom this enigma and once more, find something worth living. But now that he is hanging in midair, he planned to fall back. He jumped out of the ledge and headed out the campus, afraid that she might be at sight and all the strength in him shall subside. He was up all night, thinking of how he could get a chance to meet and talk to her. He had thoughts of crafting schemes, devising methods and inventing tricks.

And nothing of it worked.

The first day of class commenced. New Hope University is buzzing with ecstatic students. Vincent giggled with utmost excitement, carelessly bumping shoulders and brushing elbows with other students in the corridors.  He molested his tattered COR and skimmed for his first class. It is in room 101 scheduled 9:00. He reviewed through the digital clock and he hurried as it ticked to 8:58. Luckily, he is safe from prime tardiness, though he seemed to be the last comer. He seated at the back, knowing that after thirty minutes, he’d helplessly succumb to napping since it is his favorite subject-English 8, Technical Writing.

And so she happened.

It was her, Roxanne’s doppelganger who broke the charts. She was 15 minutes late and unforgivably beautiful with her sequined tee and skinny jeans. She realized what she has gotten into and apologized with the kindest gesture. The professor gave her a hand and led her to the seat beside Vincent. She felt awkward. He was worse. They both sat like lifeless puppets with the puppeteer gone until she broke the silence.

“I’m Katherine,” she muttered. “Katherine Evans, glad to be your block mate”. She took it off with a smile that sent Vincent to hyperventilation. He couldn’t shake her hands. They’re already shaking with butterflies. The poor guy mounted his strength. He could not afford to lose the chance. “Vincent, Vincent Smith”. That was all and a nod. It was rare for Vincent to survive the thirty-minute nap attack but he did this time, although the victory seemed unnoticed. They enjoyed the remaining hour sharing thoughts and ideas with Vincent succeeding in all his attempts to stint his best jokes. He has come to know who she is at the basics-a transferee from Dakota University, a cheerleader and an adventurist. He also looks forward to know more about her in the days to come- hoping that she likes cheese, watching live wrestling fights and attending Sunday mass.

Perhaps she doesn't.

Two weeks was enough a time for the two of them to get closer to each other. They were both open to let the affinity they share to grow and blossom. It was very apparent that the two knew where their relationship is going and they both seemed ready for it.

Months have passed and the two were no more than couples. But Vincent was too overwhelmed of what he had let enter his life. Katherine is no Roxanne. She doesn’t like cheese, wrestling or Sunday masses. She was more self-driven, conceited and unwelcoming. Sooner he realized that he isn’t in love with Katherine, nor will he ever be. He just created his Utopia by painting Roxanne’s memories on Katherine’s facade. He believed to have loved again and he believed in vain.

It was a candlelight dinner at Katherine's and it was all set. She suggested it herself. She would always do this, steering their affair on a one man tag and turning the tides whichever she likes it to be. She seemed obsessed about Vincent, about their friendship, about their bond. This was her biggest mistake: to let Vincent get drowned in her self-consumed devotion.

Vincent is on his way. To break her heart.

When he came, Katherine pranced in glee. She presented the menu. And the drinks too. She was on the midst of telling Vincent her summer getaway plans when he told her to stop and listen. He undid it to her gently by taking all the blames, that it was his butter fingered actions which led them both bruised and bleeding. It was a self-defeating battle preordained by the gods. A tear fell down from Katherine’s eyes, and she didn’t want to show him more. She fled her way out the dining room with a tormented soul, like Aphrodite torn by Adonis, and hurried to her room with the banging of the door. Vincent was left with only the deafening silence, keeping his severed heart together.

As he sat out there slowly losing substance, he began to notice a set of picture frames that showed two happy faces, one of them Vincent was able to recognize in just a matter of seconds. But what puzzled him most is the picture's relevance to Katherine. He thought of a reason to make his way out the riddle. He looked closer to the girl beside Roxanne and found a spot of mole that was identical to Katherine's.

Vincent stumbled to a discovery he wished he had never known.

On the night Roxanne met death, she was not alone. She was with company. The girl that happened to live is Vicky Duran, Roxanne’s best friend. She was secretly in love with Vincent. And she was prepared to change her entire life for a streak of a chance that she’ll have what she was living for.

And she almost succeeded.

Vincent, still staggered on how things turned out insane, went to Roxanne’s grave. He shattered from an implosion of mixed emotions and he cried out like a child who lost his treasured toy. He curled on the ground with so much pain and bearing contained inside him. He called out Roxanne’s name with pure longing, bringing back his old self and his memories of that grey autumn, of that unwanted Friday that took her life away.

Footsteps cracked from the ground and Vincent ceased his outburst of melancholy.

“Let me end your misery,” a trembling voice came from behind him. It was Vicky, whose face is neither Roxanne’s nor Katherine’s. It was a face of a hopeless woman, wretched and determined for something. She was wearing rugged clothes and she held a gun on her hand. To Vicky, living is no different from death. She has now understood why the very person she loves has turned away from her when she gave all that she never was. But the realization priced too much of her reality that she cannot anymore take back. She decided to **** him and then take her own life.

She pointed the gun towards Vincent. He jumped at her to take the gun away. They grappled on the ground, the weapon still on Vicky’s hands. Vincent managed to overpower her but she kicked him, tumbling back to the gravestone. A shot was heard from afar with a man’s cry.

It rained that day. Brown withered leaves of tall laurels hovered with the wind while branches of solitary Cypresses dance to every whirl. The breeze whispered to the clouds of grey, a mark of autumn’s return. Vincent crawled to Roxanne's grave. It was a weeping of a true love that echoed away. Raindrops keep descending from the heavens, washing away the blood that kept flowing to the ground of mud.  Perhaps, on the last moments of his life he found happiness, even from a love that was never his to keep.

 

- by Larry Potter
Twigzy Sep 2018
Your children are a precious gift so innocent and pure.
At their birth you have the hope of love, lasting evermore.

You spend your waking days attending to their needs,
Waiting for the next smile and sound of utter glee,

And when you sleep you dream of them and wait until the dawn,
Rising before break of day to greet them in the morn,

Your babies grow and soon become your little girls and boys.
You exchange all their play things for larger, bigger toys.

You’ve learned about mothering and matured along the way,
But your relationship with their daddy isn’t turning out ok.

There are ups and downs and you expect that to be true.
But underlying unhappiness begins to escape through.

Daddy doesn’t seem to be all he is meant to be,
Late nights in the lounge, is he watching the TV?

Your children keep you happy though, just look into their face,
They make you smile, they make you laugh, and they fill you with grace.

But underlying unhappiness cannot be washed away,
It’s growing like a tumour, just waiting for its day.

You are not sure what it is, but this one thing you know,
No matter what happens now, you enjoy watching your children grow.

The pre-teen years are nearly over and the high school years draw near.
Then one child beckons you and whispers in your ear.

“Daddy’s been molesting me it started when I was four
All those times you were asleep, he came through my bedroom door
He put his hands all over me I couldn’t make him stop
I wanted to die many times, to fall down and drop!

He hurt me with his ***** mummy, I am so ashamed
I was too scared to tell before because I was to blame
Once, you were in the room mummy, I could see you sleeping
He molested me then and there mummy, I could hear your breathing

My heart screamed out to you mummy, but I did not exist,
My soul began to suffocate and death seemed freedoms bliss.”

The words your child is speaking echo through an empty void,
And darkness falls around you, encumbering you like a shroud.

Someone just stuck a knife into the heart of what was sacred.
Your precious children have been filled with someone else’s hatred.

You need some help, you need to grieve but who can be trusted.
The fear the shame the hurt the blame your heart is torn and busted.

You collect your shattered children and hold them very tight,
You hold them ever so-close, you hold them with all your might.

Flashes of the years gone by ignite before your eyes,
And you see so clearly, all the torment in his lies.

Time has passed you by and your children have grown
But it feels only yesterday you were crushed against the stones
This was how the my first marrage ended.
Our family has survived. My children have become brave adults, they are my heroes
Classy J Sep 2018
Used to have nightmares all the time, used to see demons in real life.
Used to think I had infinite time, used to be held back by strife.
Uh, elder made me a dream catcher when was young,
when my parents were too busy drowning in the ***,
so I admired the gangs who taught me how to hold a gun.
They told me guns was our only power, our only resistance, because reality is twisted and white man never going to give us
any **** assistance.

(Intro) How do I want to define my existence? How do I achieve My dreams? How can I love others when they scared of me and keep their distance from me? What’s the point of climbing the mountain when God struck me down before I was even half way up? How can I get over addictions when everyone else already gave up on me and won’t lift me up?

Climbing this myth, this illusion, this delusion,
trying to change but how can I?
When my people were put through crucifixion?
My mushim and kokum taught me the way of our people,
but looking back at it now I think I failed my people.

Learned different lessons like yin and yang from friends,
but it’s too late the balance is broken...
this is how our people’s story ends.
That’s just how I feel and with no home I can call my own.
So, I sleep on the streets with a bottle of patron.
Water was supposed to cleanse me, and fire was supposed to warm me, but this fire water is going to be the end of me.
When the colonists came they seemed so sweet like Juliet, but it was all a trick, got poisoned and it was revealed that Juliet was really Brutus to our Julius.
We trusted ****** and look where it got us,
we trusted the church and they molested us.
We trusted the education system,
but they beat us and told us our beliefs and cultures were blasphemous.

They spread their diseases to us, they extended court dates,
so we couldn’t defend ourselves or get reconciliation,
from past callous deeds that were pretty heinous.
Jesus save us, oh wait you brought them to us!
Pride was turned to shame, courage was turned to insecurity, yeah so much for diversity!

The ***** problem, the white man’s burden,
but we are told to just get over it and keep this **** hidden.
So yeah, my dreams and visions of becoming more is no more than an illusion.

Cultures collide and bring forth rigged constitutions.
So, a society develops assumptions and misconceptions,
and it didn’t help that my ancestors had to wait till 1960 to vote in pointless elections.

Elections to decide the next white privileged man to take power,
power that turns good man evil.
Most don’t see or want to see the levels of this status quo devil woe’s, **** ridden covert racist codes.
So, if reality is a nightmare on elm street I’d rather live life short and die quick, and kick the Lord off his high seat.
****, looks like this dream catcher turned out to be Charlotte's web.
Oh, the irony of this misdirect, I thought the dream-catcher was supposed to protect!

But I see know that when you throw out the ***** bath water you also got to throw out the crib!
So now you can see why I can’t get ahead, because white society set up an invisible blockade.
So, sorry if perpetuating the cycle is wrong,
but might as well take my token Indian status and put it into a broken arcade.
For this mountain I’ve been climbing was really a cliff all along,
and society made it pretty clear that I don't belong.
So, I have no choice but to sing my Farewell song.
For the time of the Indian is dead and gone!
Odi Feb 2012
Your fingertips danced to the echo of your own brokenness
Your pain so pure in the form of shivers
    too heavy
           Intense for a mere tear
and what words I could hear from your mumbled mess
    and skipping heartbeat
   As you looked off into that deep dark sea
    that was just scary and I thought
You had every right to be afraid of just about
everything
because there is so much to be scared of in this horrible
awful
messy
place
children go missing
and molested
and little girls like you
get *****
and all they remember is the strange hum of police sirens and an officer that was
a little too friendly
and now they look at people with empty frozen eyes
that I cant look past or through
Like insects trapped in nets
Or **** stars turnin' tricks
I feel awful to think that paedophiles
and molested children
have the same kind of hands
if you look somewhere in the past
its hard to think they were children too
who maybe liked chocolate milk
and hated the way a neighbour made them feel

You told me these theories with a steady voice
Resembling your own destruction
somehow detached from your own ****
what
was
taken
from
you

Sam told me about how you came home bruised
broken
and he took a wash cloth to your cuts
and that filth that monster left in you
      you told me how Sam cried as you tried
hard not to make a sound
(you ended up comforting him)
you ask questions to an un-answering god
about how this could of happened to you
too many times..

I watched your beautiful mouth tell me
awful
awful
things
"We all smile with that invisible gun to our head."-Chuck Palenhuik
I cried as I saw pimples in her dimples
Encycling her two cheeks like ripples
She was the one that got all my respect
To her I gave my time, no day of neglect
She was always having my annual rose
And her smile, my only efficient dose

I wept as I saw pimples in her dimples
As big as the size of Alaboyun's *******
She was a blend of white-blue always
And tarried for common, countless days
In the earliest moments of our fight
My emotional cord was tough and tight

I cried as I saw pimples in her dimples
For no more were those fresh apples
Those fruity, pleasant things she faked
As if there was no debris to be raked
She was always appearing ten-over-ten
And no signs of going from men to men

I wept as I saw pimples in her dimples
For I taught we'd be best among couples
The soft fingers of her green flowers
Captivated me every twenty-four hours
Then the flowers had music and mellow
Their nectars today are in sweet sorrow

I cried as I saw pimples in her dimples
Encycling her two cheeks like ripples
Her folks called me a playing tool
And her best friend, a funny fool
I danced through her demanding soul
I almost got crippled by its ***-hole

Now I cried as I saw those two dimples
Molested by her open, plenty pimples
If I knew she went after many men
I would have left her there and then
Had I known she nurtured many wrinkles
I'd have gone before an eye twinkles.
This poem explains what you notice when a so-called well-behaved lover turns out to be an unscrupulous, wayward individual. Invariably, he or she must have been skillfully pretentious from the outset. #Pretence, #Immorality
Silence Screamz Oct 2014
At twenty one thirty ,
and far away,
she made up her mind
and couldn't stay.

Her pain was too much,
for her to bare
I tried to reach out,
but she didn't care.

At just seventeen,
she had been through hell,
Could not escape
her molested cell.

Nowhere to go,
seeing darkness around,
No escape for this girl,
only hell bound.

I begged her to stay,
she said go away,
Why do you care?
I bowed down to pray.

She grabbed the blade,
going deeper every time,
Slashed her wrist,
I cried and I cried.

A thousand miles away,
I am now in somber.
Why did you leave me?
I will always remember.
A friend just did this.  I didn't have any of her family members numbers to contact them. I am in complete shock right now.
PNasarudheen Dec 2012
Oh! Rama!

Oh! Rama,”reme ithi rama”
(Makes us happy so Rama!)
Here, mourn and sigh Ahalyas
In every atom of rocky hearts
Of India; as Sahasralingas spy.
Ambush, spring on praying preys.
Rushi Gauthams suspicious  curse
In repentance they bless retribution.
Oh! Rama, with your soft feet touch,
Liberate the poor pious chaste Ahalyas,
Sathi, Savitri, Seetha and Panchali,O!
Sultana Raziya, Jhansi Rani ,Indira Gandhi,
Think of their vicissitudes, the path they tread!
  Patriarchy exerts pressure on Matriarchy, O!Mum!
Bharat matha is molested by Kuberas and Mamons.
And her daughters are robbed and ***** ruthlessly, alas!
Oh! Rama,”Dharma Samsthanardhaya “come with dirge
Of the degenerated culture of Vultures, save thy women folk.
  Make people to think right, to follow right path, to tell true words.
To live in Eeman (Dharma) not to inflict pain to other co-habitants.
Without negative there is no use of  positive, so is woman and man.
They are like protons and electrons to the flux of family life peaceful.
Oh! Rama , teach, Dharmorakshati Rakshita:,”repentance gives retribution
   That will bring peace, progress,  stability, justice and unity; not  Pax Romana
Trevor Gates May 2013
I’ve been expecting you.
I’ve waited an eternity.
Please sit
Thank you
I will now tell you things

I will tell you things I will do
Things I will do to you

Are you curious to know what they are?
You should be.

As I am curious to know
What compelled you to come here?
Yes

Everything in your conscious told you to stay away.
Yet, you are here.
Your friends warned you
But, you are here
Your nagging doubts, your conflicting reasoning all point to something else
Alas, you are here

And I can’t seem to understand why.
You know what I am.
I am an unconventional socialite of the most diabolic kind

I feed off the likes of you.
The sweet, tangible nectarine of modern serenity
The soft, lavender of incorruptible virtues
The delicate outer skin of savory delectability

My mouth waters at the very thought of you
I salivate with the very presence of you
I can feel my blood rush
My hands shake with anticipation

Let my touch
Caress you
Warm you
You don’t deny it
Because you long for it
You long for me to trace your lips with my fingertips
To suckle the flesh drops of your ears
To familiarize my hands with your supple body
To show you the darker side of forbidden passion
To welcome you into the bounty of vicious coitus
And depraved, animistic *******
And deep recessive *******
And blood constricted battering
With lines and whips
Chains
Belts
Leather and
Nightmares
And masters
And tormentors
And wicked shadows lurking in the room
Watching us as we display the ungodly exhibition
Of your forbidden desires

For me to savor the swelling peach of your ***** fruit.

This is for you.

Even as you proclaim your goodness to others
You have a side of your personality that demands unsuppressed copulation.

And why do you need this?
Why do you need me?

I can see it in your eyes.

It was because people in another world told you to hide your womanhood
To despise you sexuality
For it will make you weak
And vulnerable

What was your story behind your frailty?

It could have been the close-minded parents of the old age, who never tried to think for themselves; only allowing others with higher knowledge to justify their old-fashioned morals.
Or
The life you saw through popular culture and mind-altering media.  The problem with pop cultivation is that is follows the wave lengths of susceptible hosts: the average, everyday citizens that “trust” the outside word; that “trust” what is said to them through dystopian and totalitarian subtleties.  
You didn’t know better.
But you could tell it wasn’t right
How is it that a young child can truly know what is right and what is wrong
More so than the misconceived adults?
Because simplicity is key to filtering the complex

Now what does this have to deal with you sexuality
Because unless you do what is only natural for you to do, others will tell you what you should do.

Now, you embrace your emerging fruition.
As my tongue slithers around your sensitive ****
My fingers stretch and penetrate your wanting *****
Now
Is your chance
Overpower the host before you
It is a test

Your daunting task ahead is to overthrow the embellishment of your submission

Are you up to it?

We shall see.

The shadows on the walls are the ones that maimed you
Scolded you
Accosted you
Abused you
Terrified you
Rectified you
Molested you
Suffocated you
Punished you
Insulted you
Silenced you
***** you

Why?

Because they are:
Afraid of you
Intimated of you
Worried of you
Scared of you
And
Enticed by you
Infuriated by you
Aroused by you
Alarmed by you
Entranced by you
And pleasured by you

Could you be all and none of what I said?
You tell me
Whisper it in my ear
Now bite it
Use your teeth and swear it
Tear it and devour it
My creature of the night
My child of ritual
My servant to flesh
My master to skin
My all to this and none to that
The embodiment of lust
The being of now

And the beginning of the end.
Thank you for coming here tonight my dear.  Send my regards to your fans and loved ones: Johnny Depp, Lucifer, Mammon, Hellraiser, Candyman, egg whites, Wool hats, Epson printers, Derek Riggs, Spider-man, Bruce Willis, Lampshade, Black Holes, Taxi drivers, Durex condoms, Hank Azaria, Simon Pegg, Colonel Sanders, Iron Man, Spike Jones, Spike Lee, Spike Speigel, Eva Green and of course his imperial majesty, David Bowie.

Maybe we’ll see each other again.
Allen Wilbert Dec 2013
Smelly Red Neck

I knew a man who was a smelly red neck,
this poor fellow was always having a wreck.
Two whole teeth and can barely read,
drinks his ***** and smokes his ****.
Blind in one eye, can't see out the other,
his sister is also his mother.
It's a family filled with ******,
born and raised in the southern mid-west.
Twelve toes and eight fingers,
grandma ***** by a gang of *******.
He was mostly white, with a ******* *****,
Daisy Duke calls him Enos.
Hair is red, ***** are blue,
when it comes to words, he knows a few.
Can't drive a car, can't ride a bike,
strongly believes in the Third *****.
Dumber than an old door ****,
never had a ******* job.
The laughing stock of the town,
underwear is always sticky brown.
Has one ear and three *******,
even gets picked on by the cripples.
Ten feet tall, with an IQ of twenty,
gets hard when he sees a penny.
Family was killed in a tractor accident,
there he sat naked in an over-sized cabinet.
Being molested by every perverted predator,
started to crack from all the pressure.
Grabs a gun and goes out shooting,
it's the devils work and he was recruiting.
Police came and shot him dead,
saying **** he had a ******* head.
PNasarudheen Dec 2012
Oh! Rama!

Oh! Rama,”reme ithi rama”
(Makes us happy so Rama!)
Here, mourn and sigh Ahalyas
In every atom of rocky hearts
Of India; as Sahasralingas spy.
Ambush, spring on praying preys.
Rushi Gauthams suspicious  curse
In repentance they bless retribution.
Oh! Rama, with your soft feet touch,
Liberate the poor pious chaste Ahalyas,
Sathi, Savitri, Seetha and Panchali,O!
Sultana Raziya, Jhansi Rani ,Indira Gandhi,
Think of their vicissitudes, the path they trod!
  Patriarchy exerts pressure on Matriarchy, O!Mum!
Bharat matha is molested by Kuberas and Mammons.
And her daughters are robbed and ***** ruthlessly, alas!
Oh! Rama,”Dharma Samsthapanardhaya “come with dirge
Of the degenerated culture of Vultures, save thy women folk.
  Make people to think right, to follow right path, to tell true words.
To live in Eeman (Dharma) not to inflict pain to other co-habitants.
Without negative there is no use of  positive, so is woman and man.
They are like protons and electrons to the flux of family life peaceful.
Oh! Rama , teach, Dharmorakshati Rakshita:,”repentance gives retribution
   That will bring peace, progress,  stability, justice and unity; not  “Pax Romana”..
Holden Craig Jul 2014
My mother's breath is tainted with alcohol
She's on my floor, sleeping away the dinner she refused to swallow
I try to forget she was never there, and remember how hollow
Her skinny love for me was, and I ate my way into her Hell
The first cigarette, the first drink, the first time I forgot to think
I was induced in her fairy tale, my morals wothout ink, to go on
I tried to slip away, grasp a hint of bliss
I did catch something, and that was a fish

Her name was Autumn
Her hands on my shoulders, mine on her hips
We were one glance away, and this time, it hit
An anchor she was, I left my dreaded life behind
I took her calloused hand, and she took mine
Our pasts weren't us, they were our luggage
We dropped it off far back, buried it, covered it
A pair of suicidal lovers, a kiss above the chin

I was pulled on a thread
Seven months of lies
She was a chameleon
No painful past of cries
She wasn't molested
Her mom wasn't at the end of the line
Her dad didn't abuse her
Now wasn't her time

She left me longing for another
Another Autumn, another lover
I didn't love her, I loved who I thought she was
I know I will see her again, when the leaves are dust
She is so sorry
Sorry I'm sad
She got to live the life
The life I never had

I yearn to forget the name of Autumn
Until the season leaves, fall from the pealing trees
I will lie in the lies of the baked brown leaves
Crumple them one by one, calming myself, forming ease
Chills form around my neck
The same spot my mother gripped my throat
It is so hard to love someone, who despises being loved
My mother, a liar, a man sitting above
Willow Branche Jul 2014
Remember me?
I'm the girl you sent away,
Cause you were afraid for your REAL children's safety!?
What happened to "You're our daughter now."?
Did I mean anything? I mean ****?!
And you!
Remember me?
I'm the girl you molested!
After you said I could call you Daddy!
*******
You knew EVERYTHING that happened to me as a kid,
You shoulda known it would **** me up more than I already am!
And you!
Remember me?
I'm the little girl you *****!
While you were beating my mom and me!
You were getting so high, you probably don't even remember me.
But ****! You remembered when your friends came over! So why not?
And you!
I'm the girl you gave birth to!
But you never gave a **** about!
You only cared whether you were sober or not,
Or if your supply was doing ok...
Do you know you have a son too?
Oh yea, you do... But like everything else in your life,
You scared him the **** away too!
So now I have to pay?
I've already given blood!
What more do you ******* want!?
Haven't I given enough???
I mean really,
I'm a big girl now,
And I'm still paying for your mistakes somehow...
But you couldn't care less,
Cause you got what you wanted...
Maybe child support,
Or just some ******* you started.
I Just gotta know,
Did it pay off for you?
You lost so much,
You almost lost me too.
I almost KILLED MYSELF.
BECAUSE OF YOU!
And now I'm going crazy,
I've lost **** too,
For starters, my virginity...
But that wasn't my choice.
But it's all gone now...
And I still don't have a voice.
Second, Blood
**** and lots of it.
I've bled and shed for you,
And you ******* love it.
Third, my mind.
******* thanks a lot.
It disappeared one day
while you were smoking ***.
Do you know what you did to me?
Can't you see?
What the **** is wrong with you?
CAN YOU ******* REMEMBER ME!?
Ekym Reyotem Feb 2019
All too often the question is posed :
What has happened to all of the " Real Men"?
Do they even exist anymore, or have they succumbed to extinction?

And the answer is no. They are still very much alive, just fewer in numbers. These days, if you happen to come across one, chances are you will find him at what, from the outside, appears to be him at his worst. After having been so beaten down by life, that he hardly resembles a man any longer. (Or at least to what your un-natural opinion of a man resembles) This, as a result of standing up for what is decent, fair and moral. You know, being a "Man", while living in a world void of any morality. But do you know?

Do you really have the ability enough to be able to recognize some one for whom and what they really are? Where do your eyes stop when they peer at someone? Do they penetrate through the car window? Past the $20 hair cut? Can they keep going, beyond the glare of jewelry and through the named brand distractions of the accessorized apparel? And even then, past the last line of defense for this facade, the camouflage more commonly referred to as body art. Which, just like any other item one don's for a masquerade, it sole purpose is to distract others from the truth of what little substance lies underneath the skin.

Those aren't real men or in many cases women either. A tattoo, or any other equivalent of artificiality can never be as honest as a Scar can be.
An Emotional Scar does more damage than a superficial one. A wound speaks more of the individual who bears it. Who's suffered the pain which came with it and who is constantly reminded by it. That is what true sense is derived from, Lessons.

However, when it comes to the moral Man's personality,
the world today & the people in it tend to push these types of individuals into corners. These types of "personalities" suffer to hold on to their integrity and pay terrible prices in order to do so. They sacrifice their security, their psychological state of mind & their physical personal comfort for it. And living in this world, for them, is like torture. So many have had the things and the people they fought for, loved and held dear, snatched away from them, just because they do, not what is easy & popular, but what is right. And these days, the difference between those three are worlds apart.

The lethargic effortlessness of life has made men like me, obsolete and replaced us with the self-serving Narcissist. No longer Gods creation  but a new creation of the self. Void of any empathy, understanding, sympathy or human emotion. Synthetic, and machine like, a Frankenstein incarnate. Look around out there and if you have eyes to see with, you will see that humanity has traded who they were born to be, for what is in fashion to be. They have given up the now elusive spirit of the human heart, for the abundant trend of the human ego. Take a closer look, it is like "The Walking Dead" out there. Mindless, heartless, merciless dead things, only doing for them selves. Consuming whatever they can, how ever they can & who ever they can, in order to stay well supplied and well hidden among'st the rest of us. Lying in wait to ambush us, victimizing us, selling us out, draining us like Vampires.
Men and Women like myself, start to feel as though we are the last human beings on earth, being hunted by these consumers. Always weary and uncomfortable. Going through life trying desperately to hold on to that which is real within us, so that decency does not vanish from our lives, by being chewed up and swallowed whole by a dead eyed world gone mad.

A horrible existence. This way of living/surviving is completely unnatural & brings with it a new type of loneliness & attached to that is the worst kind of hopelessness. A dangerous state to be in if one does not keep his wit's about him. And have the given sense enough to know, that If it were not for a God in heaven, there would be no hope at all. No reason to suffer un-popularity or ostracism. No reason to do what is right, over what is convenient . No reason to not just give in to the temptation of an easy life. A life where all that matters is numero-uno. Where everything else and everyone else is just secondary.

I would rather be alone & miserable for the rest of my life, than to be a self-centered, backstabbing, bloodsucking son of a b¡tch like the rest of you out there.

Now, getting back to these "Men" that so many our Women are attracted to. The men that keep letting you down time and time again. The ones who's possessions make them look like they are worth something, whom you so easily swoon over like some kind of hypnotized harlot. My dear sister, eventually those things get stripped away. Either by time or the trial's of life. And then what you are left left with is whatever pathetic thing was hiding underneath.

And that is what you get, for being led by your eye's, your hands, your ears and your selfish little minds.You listen to & are led by, every other part of your body except your heart, which is the Apex O r g a n over all others. Which has been given charge and authority, by The Creator himself over all of those other things you are always so quick to bow down to. And that is a d a m n e d shame. And that is your d a m n e d shame. And it is no one else's fault but your own.

You want to see a mans character or a woman's? Then look for their Scars. They will tell you what kind of survivor they really are. The kind that is self reliant or the kind that feeds off of the flesh of his brother or his sister to survive. The opportunist, The scavenger, The rat.

But thankfully, there is a God. One God.
And there always will be. And so the rest of the world can go on doing what it does, and taking what it can.
But it will never get what it wants, not from me. My individuality is my soul and it is held together not with pride, or greed, or vanity, but with integrity. And that belongs to Him. And when it is inevitably brought back to him, it will be brought to him intact, un-molested &
Immovable-
Swetank Modi Oct 2014
At twenty one thirty ,
and far away,
she made up her mind
and couldn't stay.

Her pain was too much,
for her to bear.
I tried to reach out,
but she didn't care.

At just seventeen,
she had been through hell,
Could not escape
her molested cell.

Nowhere to go,
seeing darkness around,
No escape for this girl,
only hell bound.

I begged her to stay,
she said go away,
Why do you care?
I bowed down to pray.

She grab the blade,
going deeper every time,
Slashed her wrist,
I cried and I cried.

A thousand miles away,
I am now in somber.
Why did you leave me?
I will always remember.
Dresden Aug 2018
Life has many milestones.
Each bringing a significant change to one's life.
Whether that be a birthday, a wedding, a child.
But it's difficult to admit the sadder milestones that we carry with us.
However these negative moments also have a significant effect on us.
This is my list of milestones I hate to admit.
But they have impacted me tramendously.
It's time I released them so I can look ahead.

Molested by a boy at age 4.
Countlessly ***** by my sister starting at age 5.
***** by my therapist at age 7.
Beat by my sister throughout childhood.
Bribed and verbally abused by my step father to condition me to keep my issues to myself.
Traumatized at 10 by my father and his ex due to a domestic abuse situation.
Almost drowned from my first public panic attack at age 16.
Harassed by a man at a concert at age 20.
Endured the hell that relationships always bring.
Attempted suicide twice at age 21.
And a man attempted to **** me at a party last week while I was intoxicated.

I know I'm not the only one with these difficult memories.
And knowing I'm not alone will always be my comfort.
But I'm letting it all out;
purging out the evil so I can be releaved.
And now my hope is to heal and become whole again in the healthiest way possible.

I can overcome these milestones.
I know I can.
1646

Why should we hurry—why indeed?
When every way we fly
We are molested equally
By immortality.
No respite from the inference
That this which is begun,
Though where its labors lie
A bland uncertainty
Besets the sight
This mighty night—
kenye Oct 2014
Je ne sais quoi
Yeah,
she don't got it no more.

They aborted it from her
when they sold her the
the false perfection elixir
that soul'd her out

Hook, line, and sink her
gut her,
fillet her.

Ctrl-alt-del the fetus,
the sacrifice of the inner-child.
Molested into the machinery of Moloch

He butchered
the absolute heart
of the poem of life
out of her body.

She stands naked
goddess-less
kicked into the prison pit
of existence

Now she's like *everybody
.
She's nobody.
This is an excerpt from a song I wrote from my Soul Punkera. It's titled "Fashioning the Object" It is influenced by an art exhibit of the same name I saw in Chicago a couple years back. It really changed my perspective on the way our beauty standards are flawed, and the disenchantment of the suffering models are put through to obtain perfection. A lot of the Soul Punkera itself is influenced by Ginsberg's Howl. So I make several references to it.
Amanda Stoddard Jan 2015
My father was always one notch on his bedpost close to hypocrisy
and my mother was a couple notches shy of getting there-
she never dabbled in multiracial relationships like my father did.
You see when I was growing up
I had a crush on the little mixed boy down the street
and I was afraid of telling anybody
but it wasn't because of his skin-
but because ew, feelings. Right?
I never saw just black and white,
skin color was never a forefront
it was all just background noise-
to me it was all just gray.
There's no handbook about who you connect with
and there's no color scheme that's gonna show you who to trust.
I realized that because before I had a boyfriend
No black people where allowed at my house
not because they didn't want me hanging out with black people-
but because they were afraid I would end up with one.
Segregation was my father's second nature
and I would like to blame it on the era he was born-
even though I'm really not so sure.
And now that I have a boyfriend everything is fine...
It's like in their mind the more melanin the more sin
I'm sorry father and mother but there is no color coordination
to this thing we call life-
I never grew up afraid of colors because I loved rainbow-
I never grew up scared of the skin that wasn't like mine
just because of all the stories these white folks like to tell-
But the funny thing is
it was a white male, and a white female that molested me....
And my parents probably would've warned me
about the mixed boy down the street-
so really? who should we be afraid of?

Everyone. Equally.
This is just a little something for my poetry open mic tonight, it's a little rough but I'm trying to support equality with my own personal experiences. Love to all.
chainedwhore Nov 2014
i suffer from depression and its always been that way...
prozac work best but have side effects that i dont like...

I was always thin when i was younger up until my brother died..
When he died i gained like 30 lbs *** i was so upset and missed him terribly. I also didnt have any friends close by that i could REALLY talk to...(she lived 6 hours away and was going thru stuff with her new man so i didnt want to bother her.)

I so wanted someone to talk to about all my woes but couldnt afford it.
So i masked it with what i could afford and what ive always masked my pain with..

I was molested by my moms ex husband when i was like 4 - 8 yrs old.
I used to imagine myself floating on the ceiling and years later found out why when I read a book about children who are abused weither its physical, verbal, or ******. It said in the book that children who are abused will usually either put themselves into the wall or floating on the ceiling...when I read that I felt so realieved *** I always remembered myself doing this but i didnt understand why i remember doing that.... I thought I was crazy or nuts or had special powers.
It also said that kids who are abused in any of these areas are more likely to drop out of school, commit crime and or do drugs, or all of the above.

Because Ive been an addict and I dont know why.I have gotten into trouble before and i did drop out of school.

I wish I had'nt  done any of them, much less all 3!!

When I was younger I loved to listen to music. I still do. It was like my best friend *** it didnt let me down and wouldnt leave me.....it was always there whenever I needed it and there was a lways a song that could explain EXACTLY how I feel.  My brother had an obsession with it as well and he would like rock or pop his head to the beat.

When my brother died....I felt so lost and so alone...Because only a few people in my life have ever loved me for me.....i guess its unconditionally!!

One was my bro...the other is my son Todd... and the other is my best friend in the whole world and her name is Yvonne but I call her Bon Bon.

They have always accepted me for who I am and dont judge me at all...
They just say "thats the way she is you either like her or you dont".
Because I am very blunt, honest, i dont candy coat things...Alot of people dont like that.....but there are others that think its fine. Its just me.

But anyway....I had a boyfriend when he died that ripped him off before he died and I was so mad at him for doing that...It caused alot of term oil in my family over that. I used to go see my brother ever week and Id stay for at least one night if not both nights and id cook him food and do his laundry (he was kind of disable *** he had a rare case of gout and it made him most of the time wheel chair bound.)and just visit with him...we were really close and when the boyfriend did that it made it weird between us...
and I didnt go see him for the last year of his life...*** he was thinking i was in on it with the ex (but I swear on my life may god strike me dead i had nothing to do with it.) which when he was really sick and in the hospital I mmade the ex take me to see him.

Making a long story shorter...
I at least got to see him twice before he died. Once when he was able to still talk and the other time he was so medicated that he couldnt. But the last time we spoke the last thing he ever said to me was "I LOVE YOU!" and Im so grateful for that....

But I gained weight *** i was so sad that he was gone and still am....

Now my mom on Oct 1, 2014 ..
was given the news that she has paincriatic cancer. Its not cureable  and its the most deadly.
Learning this has made me so very very sad even more depressed *** now Im going to loose my mommy.

It is so sad to think your mom is going to die when shes only 67 yrs old. Shes never smoked or done drugs and has like 2 or 3 degrees in stuff. She was the first woman in the 80s to have top secuity clearence at Edwardas Air Force Base. She was involved in the space shuttle flights (i dont know what she did but she was in the control room doing something) and the SR71 and the Blackbird aka The B-1 bomber. Shes so smart and doesnt deserve this...

I dont do the death thing well at all and i am a depressed eatter. I have gained some more weight learning all of this now with her....

I have been told that Im an UglyPig and will be alone forever from this person (******* really) i used to see and hes on here and is very mean to me talking about my appearance and my devices that i use *** i know of nothing else....

Some of us havent had the best childhood that was happy and wonderful with my true parents..
Some of us have broken homes and had to see our mom get beat up by the ******* who molested me for years...
Some of us didnt feel like we were loved or that we mattered ....its as if we were a blockage for my moms fun.
I know my mom loved my brother and my sister but i dont think she loves me....i think she tries but she just cant or doesnt know how...

My point behind writting this it to tell the ******* that I WILL LOSE THE WEIGHT, AND I WILL STOP USING.....BUT I DONT NEED TO HEAR IT FROM YOU WHAT A FAT UGLY NON EDJUCATED BORE I AM....
I HAVE NEVER SAID WHAT I THINK OF YOU BECAUSE ITS NOT RIGHT AND ITS HURTFUL AND IM NOT GOING TO LOWER MYSELF LIKE YOU HAVE AND BE A **** (LIKE U SAY I AM) LIKE YOU ARE BEING.

I AM GOING TO GET THIN BUT IM GOING THRU THE HARDEST **** IVE HAD TO DEAL WITH IN MY LIFE AND IM DEPRESSED BUT I WILL GET HELP AND GET THIN AND CUTE AGAIN AND I HOPE AND PRAY I RUN INTO YOU......

*** YOUR NOT WORTH WASTING ANY MORE OF MY MIND ON.

EXCEPT FOR .........

grow the **** UP!!!!!
sick of this ******* writting poems about me talking **** when i dont do that to you....and yea ive gainned  weight but my mom is dying and its kinda hard to deal with ....when your mom dies youll know what i mean.
Sorry for those who have read this .....its kinda long) thanks !
I'm too fixated in each moment -
Each moment feels so intense,

I'm lost
On the dark side of the moon,
And nothing here has any warmth,
Worth or substance ~
Nothing here makes any sense.

Even my own shadow has left me.
The Monsters, still lurking
In the darkness,
Have stolen all of my hopes
And dreams away,

I can hear the wolves,
They are hauntingly howling -
There's nowhere safe that I can run to,
On this, here, dark, dreary day.

There will be no stars
To light up the pitch-black night-skies,
They have already fallen,
Just like the Angels
That I once loved and knew,

Everything that I once held onto
As sacred, has been molested -
I've been abandoned, once again;
Hell, again, I am being forced
To walk through.

Alone, I was born and raised,
Only my pain has been consistent-
It has held my hand
Throughout my entire life.

At some point, somehow,
I stupidly gave birth
To expectations,
Luckily, I woke up
And divorced reality,
Hence becoming solitude's
Dedicated and loving wife.

On the dark side of the moon
Compassion, loyalty and trust
Are nonexistent.
Evil dwells in almost every man
And woman,

Each with his or her own agenda,
Each with his or her own selfish plan.

Saviors do not exist,
Superheroes all wear masks,

Unconditional love is but an illusion,
Here, I revert to relying solely
On the harshness of reality,
For, the truth, it always exposes
And unmasks.

The dark side of the moon
Is a very lonely, isolating place,
In which to dwell,

There is no sunshine,
No stars or Angels -
The only light visible
Comes from the flames
Of the evildoers'
Raging fiery hell!

Placed here against my will,
No lush green valley in sight,

Taken away
From the divinity of nature,
I was cruelly robbed
Of my radiant life-giving daylight.

Doomed for being too real,
Too open and too honest,
Doomed for loving too much.

Doomed for believing in superheroes,
Doomed for allowing a human
To become my crutch.

Doomed for being too empathetic,
Doomed for being too sincere.

Doomed for being too kind
And too generous,
I'm doomed, abandoned here.

I blame only myself
For allowing my intuitive awareness
And intelligence to fade away
Like the stars that once adorned
Every exquisite night-sky,

I blame only myself
For not using the blessed insight
Of my third eye.

I'm too fixated in each moment,
Each moment feels so intense,

I'm too passionate about life
To give up and remain imprisoned
On the dark side of the moon...
But I'm too emotionally weak
And disappointed to jump the fence.

By Lady R.F. (C)2018
Niveda Nahta Apr 2014
He took me by surprise,
and in a second I knew I was held,
captured,
only to be used,
I knew I could do nothing at all,
my feet were cold and his hands were armed,
he scratched me and molested me with all he had,
my neck was ****** and my heart went slow,
after having his fun,
he tightened his hold,
his work wasn't done until my body was sore,
he stomped me on the chest with his brand new boots,
hit my head and broke my arm with his beatings and his calm,
he wanted to see me dead now,
I gave him what he wanted,
as I could not move acted dead,
he left me dying told me his name was 'Angel',
my only company now was the silence of the trees,
*His name was Angel,
but evil were his deeds..
A little something I heard from a neighbour who was recently *****..sad...everything happened too quickely for her to comprehend..she still survives but not for long though...
Isolationist theories
of my brutal development
A mask
In the world of passengers

Regretting every slight disruption
Making icy chatters of teeth
As we wonder

How will these small altercations
Affect the grand course
of my surreptitious collapse?
Just a violent object on an axis
A washer head
thrown into a tumultuous ocean of visions

A flickering correspondent
Lying on an abolition
The worst things happening to the best people
It spins and breaths and *****

This molested scared demon
Anally penetrating all that I believe is genuine
Reels of my childhood development
Played on repeat to search for ammunition

The tunneling rib cages of my insanity
The forest nymph of all that is good
The one who created me
Locked away in a windowless world

Analyzed as if lockness was one of them
I always thought it would be me
Falling  to where I could not be found
How am I still standing?
Irma Cerrutti Apr 2010
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
Though I never shagged you at all
You ****** the rhythm to ******* yourself
While those around you ate crow
They schlepped out of the cleavage
And they ******* into your crumpet
They ******* you on the rowing machine
And they copulated you **** your three *****

And it seems to me you tasted your *****
Like a cigarette lighter in the diarrhoea
Never knowing who to stick it out to
When the ooze congeal from the top drawer
And I would have liked to have had carnal knowledge of you
But I was just a twit
Your cigarette lighter exploded spew out long before
Your whiff never blewout

Stiffness was sticky
The gristliest fat part you ever nibbled
Hollywood cobbled together a wizzofrog
And ******* was the corkage you greased
Even when you conked out
Oh the lubricator still molested you
All the skeletons had to jabber
Was that Marilyn was ***** flashy the starkers

Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
from the virginal wombat in the twenty—second ghetto
Who smells you as meat as above par than scatological
Olé! than frank our Marilyn Monroe
Copyright © Irma Cerrutti 2009
Joshua Haines Oct 2015
The sky, black as the eyes that stare at it.
Star-studded and as seamless as new programming.
I look down, the streets molested by fluorescent splotches --
red ribbons of memory evaporate from the lights of motorcycles,
gurgling by.

A homeless, pregnant woman, in a bar, once told me,
"Forgiveness is letting a prisoner free, then finding out that you were the prisoner."

The sunset looks like an explosion of emotions
no one understands, yet.

The smudges on her lips
look like the bruises of an orphan apple.
Ashland, Wisconsin
Karan Sherwal Aug 2018
I used to believe in good old days,
Still concerned about the little ways.
To get back in my childhood era.
Those uncountable acquaintances,
Now they are just faded faces.
Buzzing around oftentimes,
I do look at them with all my gracious Rhymes.
Those long sandwalks, I heard many voices & those preacher talks.
Standing on the top of a pile,
I saw the world with my pure human eyes.
My incapability of not performing as others,
Don’t forget we came from different mothers.
Though the course may be disturbingly fascinating,
Spot you there at the end of the lives you kept devastating.
I walked clean and I did no mean.
There was nothing to fear, but one day someone molested me who was so near.
Crippled inside myself that night,
Was so devastated couldn’t spoke a word inspite.
Moments still glare, dig in your knife so that you can pare.
Shadows no more controls me,
I fiercely play with them, and still move freely.
Enjoyed every bit just like my first bicycle wheelie.
I did both,from playing with slum folks to slept like a sloth.
Now I miss my never ending era.
Entered my puberty,
with little bit of curiosity
To not to have those thoughts control authority.
I was wild, a state called child.
Facts of my past life...

— The End —