*** trafficking – the trafficking and debasement of souls; Drug trafficking – the trafficking of substances that debase the body.  Here compared you will find the prevalence, impact, and rehabilitation processes associated with *** and shrug trafficking.  Respective clientele, demographics, and locales that these types of trafficking touch will be revealed in order enlighten you to their world-wide prevalence. The physical, emotional, spiritual, and psychological impact of lifestyles that result from these two types of trafficking will be detailed to etch vividly an image of just how far-reaching the impact of these two activities is. Light will be shed upon the rehab processes that lead to recovery from each.
                 According to UnoDC.org, the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime, the use of illicit drugs has remained in a stable trend, with approximately the same number of people using illicit drugs each year. This trend has continued for a number of years. Upon examining the world drug report, written by UnoDC.org, production of several drugs exhibit particularly interesting trends. ***** production for example fell and spiked in a somewhat predictable patter from 1990 until 2010. When this data is graphed a reasonable medium appears for all the years, revealing that ***** production has stayed around an average production of roughly 200,000 hectares annually. Likewise, coca cultivation pictures an interesting trend. From 1990 to 2010 coca production appeared to be almost identical each year, and with little to no rise or fall in production, there is a similar trend in its being trafficked.  
Nefarious: Merchant of Souls is a documentary that was released in 2012 by Exodus Cry Its producers and researchers saw firsthand the atrocities of the *** trafficking industry. The film crew interviewed former pimps and prostitutes, spoke to traffickers, the families of the trafficked and to individuals still actively engaged in three sides of the *** trade referring to currently employed pimps and prostitutes as well as those who purchased ***. The researchers and producers interviewed eastern European gang members and took a trip to Amsterdam’s red-light district – home of legal prostitution. They journeyed to Los Angeles and saw the glamorized side of the dark issue of *** trade.
According to Nefarious, the number of humans trafficked for the purpose of providing ****** services is on a shockingly steep rise. In a matter of a few years, *** trafficking rose from the third largest criminal enterprise to the second. It is second only to drug trafficking and is vying for the position as top criminal enterprise in the world. It is encroaching upon that position far more speedily than any authority or decent human being would care to acknowledge.  A survey taken in 2010 by DART (the drug awareness resistance training program) revealed that 21.8 million people aged 12 and older had taken an illicit drug in the previous month. In 2010 it was estimated that between 153 and 300 million people had used an illicit drug at least once in the previous year. These statistics fail to take into account the impact that this usage has on the lives of the families of drug users. Neither do these statistics reveal the extent to which drug users lifestyles are impacted by drugs. However, nearly  every single human trafficked for ****** purposes is completely and utterly enveloped in the lifestyle of prostitution and the violent world of being prostituted. In Nefarious a shocking statistic is revealed. Approximately ten percent of the entire human population of earth has been trafficked. Both human and drug trafficking are prevalent across the globe. Human trafficking occurs in 161 of 192 countries. Illicit drugs are trafficked in every country that has laws that deem substances unlawful. There are little to no race, religion, ethnicity, or age restrictions on who can and is trafficked for use of ***, but drugs are far more limited by age and ethnicity in their use.
Drug trafficking, though similar to *** trafficking in many ways, is in no way as substantial a damaging force to the mind, soul, and spirit as the world of *** trafficking  is in terms of the critical and dangerous force it exhibits in the emotional, physical, psychological, and spiritual  impact it has on young girls. Both drugs and *** trafficking have some influence in all of these respective areas. The primary area in which people are affected by drug use is the physical. Drug users’ health declines, they become physically or psychologically dependent, and they may develop diseases from sharing of needles or lack of inhibitions that lead to *** with an infected individual. Drugs may, in some rare cases, lead to psychoses and mental disorders. They may cause brain damage, which is both physically and mentally damaging. Drugs may even set one’s heart and soul in a place that they are more susceptible to lies or truth. They alter spiritual state for some individuals, but only mildly. However, *** trafficking victims are impacted majorly and in their entirety as a person. In all aspects of the physical, mental, and spiritual, *** trafficking victims are consumed by *** trafficking. In Nefarious it is revealed that In order to “break” *** trafficking victims they are profusely beaten, and are psychologically toyed with to create a twisted trust and dependence on their various handlers. They are repeatedly *****, and are examined like cattle by those who wish to buy women. They are imprisoned in dark rooms and not allowed to leave unless told to do so. They are bedridden and forced to ******* themselves. After being broken in ways described above and sold to a ****, girls are forced every day to meet certain quotas of customers and cash flow. If they do not meet these they are beaten even more. They lay in bed sometimes a week at a time to recover physically enough to usefully return to their “job”.  Through this hellish ordeal, their soul, self-worth and identity are being attacked by circumstances that devalue them. They become like animals.
*** trafficking victims become dependent on their environment for normalcy. This is so true for some individuals that even though they have been rescued from the lifestyle, they return.  This is not because the *** trafficking victims enjoys the lifestyle of prostitution, and it is not because they want to. Instead, it is because they think they can be nothing more than a *******. The *** trafficking victim, in this case, believes that they need to settle into the numb and thoughtless mind state that they develop when broken. Returning to prostitution does not evidence an addiction. In contrast, it is the cry of a soul that is desperately trying to cope. They do this in order to feel as if they can survive.  
The rehab processes for *** and drug trafficking differ greatly in commitment and length, but are similar in that they both require physical and psychological rehabilitation.  Drug rehabilitation programs typically consist of twelve-step programs or something similar. They last a number of months, or occasionally a few years. They allow individuals counsel and encouragement, and they attempt to, by abstinence, exorcise an addicted individual’s addiction. *** trafficking rehabilitation requires the re-creation of an individual. Self-worth must be reconstructed. The spirit must be healed in order to allow for psychological healing. Prostitutes are not addicted to prostitution, but prostitution produces dependence in that the prostituted crave normalcy. This dependence must be killed. Successfully rehabilitating women from this forced lifestyle requires lifelong commitment and endless resources. It requires passionate fanatics, people who will pour their life into changing the lives of others, because only the incurable fanatic can wreak havoc on the tragedy of human trafficking. Any short-term effort to rehabilitate a *** trafficking victim is doomed to failure. The degree to which the brokenness of *** trafficking victims becomes ingrained in them is so extreme that it takes a lifetime to reshape their lives.
While researching *** trafficking in order to accurately produce Nefarious, the researchers and producers of Nefarious became convicted by facts that they collected. The evidence they collected speaks to the fact that *** trafficking does not just attack the body; it attacks the entire being, and in far worse ways than drugs ever could. Varied races and ages are prostituted and / or consume drugs. The impact of both of *** and drug trafficking is severe, but much more so severe in the case of human trafficking. The rehab process for human trafficking is much more in depth and is testament to the horror and degree of psychological, mental, and emotional disfigurement, as well as acclimation to a horrible situation to the point that horror becomes normal – a new definition of addiction. Human trafficking is an atrocity that is far more horrendous and prevalent than imaginable. It is far more destructive than drug trafficking. Drug trafficking is one of the most destructive forces in this generation.  Surely consuming drugs is one of the most horrid things we can do to our bodies, but what about consuming souls? *** trafficking consumes souls, hearts, minds and bodies. It splits, fragments, debases, brutalizes, obliterates, murders, rapes, molests, destroys, and dehumanizes the prostituted.  Drug trafficking attacks the body the soul, and sometimes the mind, but in much milder ways.

You awaken in the cardboard box
That you refer to as your home
The dawn is barely breaking
And already you feel alone

A *****’s bath in a public restroom
Then you’re ready to start your day
Layers of stage makeup hide the wounds
Of the lead in this lack of morality play

First up is the sadistic businessman
He knows the drugs you need
But it comes with one condition
That he gets to see you bleed

With his one hand around your throat
And the other grabbing your breast
He takes whatever looks good
And leaves you with the rest

You straighten out your dress
And try to wipe yourself clean
You’re helped back to your feet
By a schoolboy of age seventeen

He's skipped his classes for the day
And borrowed his mother's van
Now he’ll gladly pay your fee
If you'll make him into a man

It’s all over before it begins
A symptom he can't control
You can barely feel it anyway
Numb in both body and soul

At night you meet your ****
And give the devil his due
You willingly submit to him
As he runs you through

You retreat to the cardboard box
That you refer to as your home
The moon is heavy in the sky
And you can finally be alone

Your lips wrap around the pipe
The smoke molests your lungs
And slowly you begin to forget
The world that you came from

You once dreamt of a white knight
That would come and take you away
Now seen as only vestiges
Of a young girl’s naiveté

Dignity is a memory
An illusion from your past
Like pleasure or happiness
A feeling you could never grasp

You once thought you’d hit rock bottom
But there was so much further left to fall
You were filled with unknown fears
But now you’ve named them all

Add up the rocks they pay
As you break their last taboo
And the secrets that they share
When they’re deep inside of you

A normal person would go insane
But your body is no longer yours
Are you less than human now?
One of a thousand nameless ******

You wonder if they see a woman
Or just another object on her knees
You could show them who you really are
But that’s not what they pay you to be

I've never been good at coloring in between the lines.

Because I leave no space in between these lines that are made,

When the blade molests my skin.

times like this, the plenary moon
  tonight wearing many faces,

the white-washed truant at bay
    white-hulled still, the brim of the sky
to a full, on such a bright night leaving a trace
   of say, prongs of fire on the kiln

the skin the soft breeze molests with a chill
flung from pinecone – the blackened spires of the
very heart of flame and the mullioned wood that understands
  what the heat of placeness mints underneath
  our skin – what silence remains a translation when the smoldering
  remains are bitten repeatedly, aureoled in the moment of vital meaning.

we hear its threat, retained in clock-whirs
like a primordial word or the fluting of  light’s bendable
   rondure harnessing a truth we let in.

I fail behind the walled-up lip of laughter
because the weight of passing
is heavy on my back – like a bough dragged
  by rainwater, or sound elected to drown:
the smell of poinsettia assaults,
lifting its slaughter against Kiltepan and Ambuklao,
  past mountains lulled to sleep: the moon sleuthing
  like a well-oiled machine.  what do you hear?

  we are aware of its full absence,
like that of our undulation after a fall,
  or the wild sibilance of breath trying  to  utter something,
  going back home with a song in between teeth,
    without words.

asmr
is that kind of thing
that creeps down your spine
and invisibly molests you

Pastel blue sky longing to
Hang over wheat;
There is only grass.
Green.
Green with envy at white clouds as
They pass.

                  (A different journey)

Poplars strive to touch
Shrunken, grey clouds that
Recoil at the very sight.
Ah, the plight of an
Innocent gesture.

               (Nowhere else to go)

Wind snears:
My train moves it so.
Grass is merely in the past
As I am slung
To and fro.

                          *

The seat next to me is empty. A passenger of invisibility kindly agrees for my bag to rest on their featherlight lap. Reservations elsewhere have been made.
Durham can wait.

                            *

In my lecture, there were four empty seats next to me. All other rows were full.

                            *

Last Monday, I got ****** at Stone Roses Bar. Stumbled along to ‘I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor.’
Hands were all over me:
Creeping and
Touching.

                     Why is it that when
I want company, it flees?

When I embrace
                            Loneliness,

             It molests me.

Allow 3 seconds,
to enter,
ignore him for he is nobody really,
the sun has not yet risen,
the stairs or the lift?
These are the choices you make,
20 calories per floor,
How long do you want this?
chose your story,
Your rib-cage molests your skin nest,
You are not the youngest,
face reality,
What have you achieved lately?
Be present in the moment,
Do not fail emotionally,
Keep on fighting in spite of being wounded,
Your bi-yearly evaluations have been consistent,
This is to be applauded in light of your recent health troubles,
Some things are clear to the naked eye,
It pleases us immensely that you have decided to stay with the organisation,
However, please adhere to company guidelines regarding the dress code,
If the train is late so much you should consider driving,
Bake a cake for the cake sale,
Your colleagues are all here to support you,
We are organising a departmental night out on Friday, attendance is mandatory,
Consider working extra time in order to clear the backlog,
Breaks are to be restricted to 15 minutes,
Ensure the correct status is inputted,
Give us everything you have,
You are our company.

On this soil where grows struggle, I hawk my sweat,
Investing my sufferings on the stench of wretchedness;
Can these green leaves bring me beacons of wealth?
I'd build my hope on the ants and termites from this train,
Its train track attracts multitude of bees with honey;
Aside this soil full of thorns, I've no other place to hawk my sweat.

Is there any hope for hope, when I am stripped of my gain by tax locusts?
All my hope is invested in the honey of bees who buy my sweat,
I fear not the tempting sun, for her smiles has become my hope;
But how can I survive the scorching economy, when I barely earn?
Even the spot on which I tread my sweat, is become an empty sea,
Aside this spot where the rain molests me, I've no hope of survival.

Beside this rusty train, where hunger steals the day, I hawk my sweat,
If I don't pressure my struggles, how can I survive the rainy days?
The sun feasts on me, cause I made her the hope of my gain,
No matter how hard I am molested, I'll never give up on my hope;
Though I hawk my sweat for living, I'll never forget my dreams,
Aside this raggy soil, where suffering is bred, I've no hope of survival.

Can I really continue hoping on hope, for not even my profit is fair,
The bees who bred honey on my sweat are now richly penniless;
Is there still hope left, as I tirelessly tread my hawking sweat?
The burden of life rests on my shoulders, for I must struggle to live,
Despite all my investment in suffering, I still can't save a penny;
Aside this soil, where I hawk my cheap sweat, I've no hope of living.

On this hardened soil where hardship is sweet, I hawk my sweat,
If I invest in my thoughts of trashing my retired cheap items,
How then will I survive the night when hungers knocks at my door?
Though I'm hawking my sweat, but I can't even feed my mouth,
Despite all my investment in suffering, I still can barely survive,
Is there still hope for me, as I solely depend on hawking my sweat?

Thrice a summer aphrodisia snickered in my face
Yesteryear the fog of boreal passion surfaced across my window frame
Omnifarious passions are surfacing
The insignificance of homosapiens stood the test of time
Life molests all of us, maul us, then sing us to sleep
Spiraling through dimensions decorated with brothels and strip clubs
Aging with the grains of pebble stones
Aphrodisia is a tourist

Wind distresses wood and window pane

Soundless damage in the shade of

stationary identity

Now, artificial names blow in the breeze

Where lush fields bloomed from wild seed

Memories plague my ears like bees

The meadows have been stolen away

A highway molests the scenery

And I taste the grief

My past ruined by washed identities

The scars have healed

Sealed off as far as eye can see

No shacks or desolate abandonment:

Romantic stops or medieval Fairs

The Age of Steel and Machine

has burst the attic of my dreams

Do you see that devil up there
With the carefully arranged hair?
Do you believe he cares about you?
Don’t. Not a word of it is true.
He is selfish and all he cares about
Is what he can get for himself
No matter what his followers shout.

Doesn’t the fact that he chooses
To berate, ridicule and scorn
Serve to set up a huge red flag?
Why doesn’t that  serve to warn
That you are in the presence of
An evil not seen for a lifetime?
Why aren’t you all looking around
For someone to throw you a lifeline?

I am sure Reagan taught you that
Movie stars can be President
And you have revered for years what
Turned out to be a sad precedent.
But now you have doubled your error,
And you have all fallen with certainty,
Under the bewitching spell of a
Creature with nothing but celebrity.

So, wake up children, if you all will
Because this time you go to far.
You have literally hitched your wagon
To what amounts to a falling star.
He lies, he cheats, he molests and swears
And worst of all, none of you cares.
You tells yourself you are a righteous soul
Then bow to the devil with the orange hair.

A leap, a step, just enough,
to feel the bounce beneath my toes.
It responds will glee and overdue
love for the angled roads.

Shifting shoes with wiggling feet,
rolling, rolling. Onward we fly.
To our deaths? To heaven, you think?
No! Just for the ride!

Swimming through the feral air,
cracks biting at your wheels,
the fear of tumbling off again
and breaking both your heels.

I wouldn't trade it for the Earth,
a girl, or friendly drug,
for this board is my lover.
Did I just eat a bug?

The wind runs past, molests my hair,
a playful game I know.
Forget your life and troubles now
and let your balance hold.

One last carve before the bottom
where the sidewalk ends,
the trucks bend gymnastically
the rubber digs deep in.

Lean back and brace the board,
it treats you well, you know.
Hear the friction sound so sweet,
and don't forget to

****!
ah ****!
my ******* wrist, *******!! it's totally broken.

did that girl see?

A green carpet spread beneath my feet,
and a sepulchral dome of blue above…
I stood pondering over our equation with nature
and everything that fills her treasure trove.

The benevolent mother of greedy billions…
The silent surveyor of each and every sin.
Pain and agony fill her every single breath,
as she is mercilessly exploited by her kin.

Her omniscience is as impeccable as ever,
she knows the consequences we are destined to face.
She pities our nonchalance and ignorance,
as we foolishly tamper with her dignity and grace.

With a sobbing heart, she ceaselessly grieves,
as her veins are poisoned by what our factories spit.
As daily, humanity mocks and molests her,
and behaves with her as it deems fit.

Our ruthless attacks have left their scars,
in the crown of ozone that adorns her head.
And though she seals her lips with vast tolerance,
we mindlessly spray her face with mercury and lead.

She knows she is foolish to harbour such fiends,
but she cannot bear to see them languish.
And so she suffers so that we may prosper,
and never ever voices her wails of anguish.

But when we meddle in matters not meant for us
and treat His greatest creation with little care…
It’s impossible to escape the noose of justice,
and future will strip these sins of past bare.

She knows it now, as she knew it then –
and being a mother has warned us as well.
Each tsunami, earthquake or a lava eruption,
is a mere snapshot of what lies in store in hell.

Yet we contemptuously dismiss these warnings,
to continue our imperious march to global havoc.
Extinction will soon be staring at our faces,
as death and destruction are bound to run amok.

This ailing planet is on critical life support,
and our insipid response has left it aghast.
It is begging us to take the green turn soon,
Lest the obdurate wheels of time run past.

Nature’s coffers are slowly but surely drying,
from our reckless use over all these years.
And a mother groans in stifled despair, searching
amongst her children for sympathetic ears.

Your disgrace has had thee mortal, my sire;
You rushed me mindlessly, to my desire,
Only to disengage me in a warned hurry,
On a wild night, in the kiss of unasked beauty.

Your **** has failed thee alone, my prince;
You have made yourself endure your lost vitality,
And have eliminated my love ever since,
Your love is coarse, your heart is not chilly.

I tell thee, just give ‘em more and more;
For papers and pens do not like us anymore,
And so our being shall mean none else to one,
My love has left me tense all on my own.

I tell thee, just give ‘em all your pulse;
Empty my brown heart from its hard curses,
You fade one night, and glow anew and come again,
You were here at once, but dispersed and loved in vain.

I tell thee, just unleash all your freedom;
Make the crowd love thee t’is time, at random,
For our passages have love meaning no more,
Nor the remembrance that once lived short.

Shall I attempt t’is time, to seize and bind ye?
What is the value of an illusion, when all is masked,
When ‘tis but the savage product of a dream,
When all of mine is renewed pain, and limbs.

Shall I bring my unknown poetry to thee?
Yearning for a bliss so damp and unloved,
But those beside, whose songs bear filthy flattery,
Sought naked by thee, in adultery through the night and day.

Shall I bring my poems to who shan’t read,
Shall I be seen as they console, as they converse.
Shall I be greedy at breast, while easy at heart
Shall I be present in my toil, in my worried verse.

Shall I be a verse to thee myself, and read me,
Shall I be a sacrifice to all glory and again.
Shall I make my whole age belong to you,
Shall I undo my fate, and wish all was true.

Shall I fight at sunset, and come back at dawn,
Shall I see what I have written and done,
Shall I compare us to the morning dew,
I have found no love so fond as you.

But who says you are a child and immortal still,
You are what the long crowd is wanting,
The vanity of what they are doing,
The yule and beer the bold blood feels.

Who says you have been a fond one at all,
Who whispers such thoughts behind the hall,
That they have seen but too rapidly,
With a pride too big, to truly hear and see.

And who says you have been a lover to me,
You have turned against your own immortality,
And your soul, then, shall not retreat to me,
You have left the heavenly sight you could not see.

And who says my poems are all over you,
For you are not a prey to any wondrous sight,
Not a bright poem for a quality night,
Not a sterling soul for the Northern Light.

And who says my poems are not ancient,
For those who hear not through the yelping rain,
For those who lay asleep on every shiny day,
For those with less to writ than to say.

And who says my poems are tolerant,
Who says they shall be nice to such impediments,
Who says they are to writ in thy honour,
Who says they shall forgive, and forget like before.

And who says my poems are those of thine,
Who says you are entwined in my mind,
Who claims you have my artistic heart,
Who writs I’ll die in my narcissistic art.

And who says my poems are for all those,
With clumsy ears and a ruddy face and nose,
Whose intelligence gives birth to no merit,
Whose defense is void of pure delight and wit.

And who says my words are for all these,
Who twitches not at the intuition of my prose,
Who wonder at the sublime virtue of kisses,
Whose pain is born from the lavender and rose.

And who says my subtle words is for such beings,
Who hide at sunset and stretch at the sound of dawn,
Who says mortals are the most stellar of kings,
Who says the possessive rainbow shan’t be gone.

And who loves with the inherent new feelings,
Who goes to sleep by the wrath of art,
Who sees not through his heart’s beating,
Who shall have their ripe hopes torn apart.

And who pains from their selfish illusions,
Who lies to their merit and imagination,
Who molests the notion of salvation,
Who tells deceit and upholds deception.

And who silences his laden soul beneath his lust,
Who scratches it with a chain of sins,
Who curses but the fond forages of love,
Whose guise shall impede his own veins.

And who loves with hate, that hate causes pain,
Who writhes in the joy and scarce delight of friends,
Who hinders reliefs, who exalts tears;
Who weeps evenly, who alters love for fears.

Sleeping with the enemy
          Her name is depression
                     With her there is no solution
                                She Leaves me feeling empty
Sad and lonely
While she molests my heart
Pain and sorrow she forces me to follow
I am a victim of my own insecurity
While falling for my own ambiguity
Not knowing how to feel, so this pain I swallow

i was delighted
when i first heard
michael jackson had died

men who sleep with little boys
and spend copious amounts of time
with them are always pedophiles

that is generally how it works,
but only all the time

soon after, people were posting
about this great loss
on a website i used to post at
they were sad that the *******
was dead

i always thought it was stupid
how he named himself the king of pop
that was a title he gave himself
and pretty much everyone went along with it
even the parents of the little boys he molested

i told the people who were grieving the loss
of the king of *******
that when a man molests a child,
it cancels out everything else
he does in life,
but no one listened, they just got ******* at me
because albums like thriller
are more important than protecting children from abuse

then i told them that "people" who abuse children
are unfit for human life
they told me i was a sociopath
then turned  the conversation
back to how much they all loved thriller
and pepsi commercials

jeff bezos had the tip jars removed
from the amazon cafeteria
because an (overpaid) amazon executive
was told by the cafeteria workers he couldn't use the change
in the tip jar to pay for his order
(after he tried to pay with change from the tip jar)

he then complained to jeff
and jeff decided that the cafeteria workers
who make minimum wage shouldn't have a tip jar
if the tips weren't going to be used to pay
for rich amazon executives lunches

so the next time you place an order with amazon
because you love price fixed counterfeit merchandise so much
go out and apologize to every child and middle class
person that you are personally responsible for displacing
because you owe them a huge ******* apology.

As I regret the passing year,
Foreign warnings call,
A toll I thought I’d never hear,
A bell molests my ears
Why must I fear the sound,
I had all year to makeready
I had the ammunition in my grasp
I had all year to get steady
I had the motivation of my past
Your idiosyncrasies, to my disbelief
Were widely unknown to my reverie
Foolishly dislodged from my instincts
The irreconcilable ways in which we think

The irreconcilable ways
In which you used to think,
Foolishly dislodged from your instincts
Now widely unknown to your reverie
My idiosyncrasies are your beliefs
You take the motivation of your past
And learn to make my trembles steady
You have the ammunition in your grasp
Now use your motive to makeready
We don’t fear the sound
The bell rings for our ears
A toll we couldn’t wait to hear
Foreign sounds will call
As you and I rewrite the year

I am ashamed of being human

Because our species molests women.