"plaything" poems
your witty remarks
and hearty jokes
aren't very funny
i thought i'd tell you
before things got
out of hand
i don't appreciate you
calling me
*"sweetheart"
"baby"*
or
"darling"
you are no one to me
and those
nicknames are
reserved
for those who
actually know
how to treat me
as a human
not a plaything
just because
i was born a certain gender
does not
give you the right
to feel like
you have the right
to call me
what you want
and treat me
as you please
my ******
(yes, i spoke the forbidden, sue me)
does not
make me
better
or more
than any
other human
with
any other
*** organs
so next time
you're about to
open that
big mouth of yours
or
put your
arm around my shoulders
or
wink at me
you'd better
think
twice
i'm using
my words
nicely
but
i'm not
always going to be
so nice
unlike what you said earlier
i'm not overreacting
this is a natural response
to everyday sexism
and just because
society has become used to it
adapted to it
accepted it
does not mean
i will give in
or give up
or ever conform
to these
downright disgusting norms
i am a woman
that does not make me
inferior
to those of other genders
nor
am i superior
to anyone
well...
except, maybe,
you
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 7:02 AM UTC
My heart is a plaything
On a length of tattered string,
Batted at by paws
With unrestrained claws.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
I am done.
I am done with being a plaything
A passing fancy
Being taken lightly and used.
I am more than a pair of *****
I am a human being.
I have a heart.
A brain.
A soul.
I will not be friends with benefits with you.
I want a real relationship.
Someone who loves me
And isn't afraid to show it.
Someone who makes me feel special.
I am not asking for perfect.
I am asking you see me for me
Scars
Broken heart
Ill mind
And all my other imperfections
And love me.
Unconditionally.
I am asking you to never let me go.
And until you appear
I am waiting.
I am.;
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 6:50 PM UTC
Of simple plastic
made with screws and with transfers.
The fads of old youth
banished high upon the shelf
now a plaything for the dust.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
To what do I owe this honor
Being your toy
A scheme
Thinking you could pass me around to another
With no love
No thought
I meant what I told you
With every piece of my tearing heart
I love you
Even still
You shove me to another once you've had your fill
Is this all I've been to you
Is that all you want
How could you...
Broken
Unsure
Why should I be a part of your life anymore
I'm not your plaything
I'm not your doll
Seeing you toss me aside...
I can't take it
I don't want to fall
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 11:28 PM UTC
I was a cottage maiden
Hardened by sun and air
Contented with my cottage mates,
Not mindful I was fair.
Why did a great lord find me out,
And praise my flaxen hair?
Why did a great lord find me out,
To fill my heart with care?
He lured me to his palace home--
Woe's me for joy thereof--
To lead a shameless shameful life,
His plaything and his love.
He wore me like a silken knot,
He changed me like a glove;
So now I moan, an unclean thing,
Who might have been a dove.
O Lady kate, my cousin Kate,
You grew more fair than I:
He saw you at your father's gate,
Chose you, and cast me by.
He watched your steps along the lane,
Your work among the rye;
He lifted you from mean estate
To sit with him on high.
Because you were so good and pure
He bound you with his ring:
The neighbors call you good and pure,
Call me an outcast thing.
Even so I sit and howl in dust,
You sit in gold and sing:
Now which of us has tenderer heart?
You had the stronger wing.
O cousin Kate, my love was true,
Your love was writ in sand:
If he had fooled not me but you,
If you stood where I stand,
He'd not have won me with his love
Nor bought me with his land;
I would have spit into his face
And not have taken his hand.
Yet I've a gift you have not got,
And seem not like to get:
For all your clothes and wedding-ring
I've little doubt you fret.
My fair-haired son, my shame, my pride,
Cling closer, closer yet:
Your father would give his lands for one
To wear his coronet.
4.6k
upon marriage your blood signs a covenant
with a firm i do
before god and the community
upon my 1st breath a covenant was signed
you want praise for a physical abuse free home
how dare you
marriage described as playing with the mouse
your plaything taken by god
he gave you, he took away
you didn't keep your covenant
you broke and destroyed a young woman
she died in a gilded Gage
no-one knows the truth, you think
i was there
i saw, i remember, small but present
emotional abuse rang the bell
i begged for divorce from you
many a time
you married "your" mother,
she married" her" father,
one contract different expectations
a broken covenant
children are a gift from god,
my sisters both died, i lived
i was/am nothing in your eyes
the covenant
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 3:49 AM UTC
Toys
What are they?
Ask someone to define a toy
And you may get an answer like
Something for a child to enjoy, a plaything
A more creative person may say
An object to be enjoyed, anything imbued with love
As for me, I might say the first, or the second
It’s all perspective
When a little child, I considered toys to be fun
Enjoyable, and probably bought from the store
A doll or bike, wooden blocks or a swing
But now, toys are different
Now, they are still enjoyable
But not “toys”
My notebooks
My brain
My pens
These are my new toys
I tend to create my own games these days
Drawing, writing, reading and thinking
Even these poems are my new fun
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 10:07 PM UTC
If you’ve ever experienced it, you’d know that the
Most terrifying thing is Silence.
You would know that our very bones fear the never-ending
Blanket that smothers our songs and stars.
And the scary thing is not that the world has gone
Dark.
It’s that your world has.
It’s that you can’t seem to see anything within yourself
That is bright and worth
Fighting for.
Silence isn’t a sound,
It’s not the high-pitched scream of the very
Ground pushing Silence
Away.
No, it’s a feeling.
It’s the feeling of sleeping when you’re
Awake.
Like some part of you is lost within yourself just trying to
Get back to the controls.
Like even after you sleep you can’t seem to get rid of the never-ending
Tiredness that seeps into your very bones
Like the cold on a winter morning.
The Silence isn’t evil though,
It’s frightening.
It’s frightening for the people who care about the shattered heart of the
Person who fell into that Silence.
It scares them deeply because it seems
Impossible to catch someone once they’ve fallen.
Everything in our world sings songs to one another and everything around us
Because we were born to sound.
We were born to the glorious breath of laughs and
Voices and promises that
Tickle your ears if you listen hard enough.
Our world is built around the noise and clatter of emotions,
So when you can’t hear them it’s
Terrifying.
Silence does not come from nothing.
Silence is not something that comes in
And takes you away because you are
It’s plaything.
No, Silence is something ancient.
It is something that was once eternal in it’s
Darkness before something
Somehow decided to turn on a light.
It is a heavy weight that we fight against
Because our hearts and souls yearn
For light.
We yearn for the searing brightness of
Love and Hate and Anger and Pride
To burn in our stomachs and throats.
We live to see the stars, so it’s
Terrifying.
When we can’t.
When all we see is a broken heart
That shattered because some part of it fell
Silent.
Our tears are our heart’s way of mourning
Our broken pieces and the
Parts that have lost their voice.
We see this Silence and tremble,
But until we see the sun again we don’t realize that it’s
Not eternal within us.
So if you’ve ever experienced it you’d know that
Silence…
It’s the darkness of sleep.
When you have no light to go to and
You fall into Silence’s arms because you can’t see
Any stars to hold your broken pieces.
You’d know that
Silence…
It’s not an enemy.
It’s the place where you can heal
Where you can finally find
Light.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 7:37 PM UTC
You stripped my soul,
Ripped me from my shoes
Where I stood
in innocence.
You extracted my childlike traits,
Treated my body
As your ********* paycheck.
My whole future
Was laid out in front me.
Now you fabricated a dent in it,
One that has shattered me
Forever.
I used to smile,
Be full of life,
Slept at night,
My body never reeked the incessant scent
of the lifeless souls you sold me to.
My heart ached everyday,
I longed for home, where safety was waiting for me.
Everyday I was a raindrop,
Trying to cling onto the window of hope,
But always slipped away.
You don’t understand the pain,
You’re only in it for the hunnits
Please understand,
That my dehumanization is not worthy
For what you gain.
My body became an abstract canvas,
For your ugly pleasures.
Bruised, bloodied, beaten, and battered.
Cuts and aches line my delicate skin,
But to you all my pain is fake.
You slapped my delicate face,
every time I asked for my precious prize of my childhood,
every time clear oceans surged out of my eyes.
“Shut the hell up!” You yelled
As I let out wails of agony.
You stepped all over me
Like I was a used cigarette.
You ignored my shrieking screams,
Actually,
You loved it.
You forced me
To comply with their beastly gratifications,
Only in return for your abundant riches.
You stepped on me,
like I was a ***** grimy, muddy puddle,
over and over
Even so,
I was still considered desirable.
I am NOT your canvas.
I am NOT your paycheck.
I am NOT your plaything.
I am worthy of honor,
worthy of respectful awe and delicacy.
I did not feel the worth of a human being anymore.
I felt ill treated, broken, bent, demeaned.
You stripped my soul, and,
Deprived me of my self respect.
And I will never
Ever
Be the same.
The only thought
That seeps into my mind
At sunrise and the brink of midnight,
Is that
I
Was someone’s *****
Listen to the pleas of
Children,
their ribbons shriveling up.
Spouses,
their vows rupturing.
Siblings,
their hearts torn apart.
Parents,
Bawling for their sanities,
Waiting to rejoice
With their miraculous bundles of joy—
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 11:13 AM UTC
(Bergen)SEVEN days all fog, all mist, and the turbines pounding through high seas.
I was a plaything, a rat's neck in the teeth of a scuffling mastiff.
Fog and fog and no stars, sun, moon.
Then an afternoon in fjords, low-lying lands scrawled in granite languages on a gray sky,
A night harbor, blue dusk mountain shoulders against a night sky,
And a circle of lights blinking: Ninety thousand people here.
Among the Wednesday night thousands in goloshes and coats slickered for rain,
I learned how hungry I was for streets and people.
I would rather be water than anything else.
I saw a drive of salt fog and mist in the North Atlantic and an iceberg dusky as a cloud in the gray of morning.
And I saw the dream pools of fjords in Norway ... and the scarf of dancing water on the rocks and over the edges of mountain shelves.
Bury me in a mountain graveyard in Norway.
Three tongues of water sing around it with snow from the mountains.
Bury me in the North Atlantic.
A fog there from Iceland will be a murmur in gray over me and a long deep wind sob always.
Bury me in an Illinois cornfield.
The blizzards loosen their pipe ***** voluntaries in winter stubble and the spring rains and the fall rains bring letters from the sea.
3.4k
The presence you hold in my heart will forever be sewn of silver and gold.
At the draw of s string
It all will unfold.
For you my dear.
All for you.
For you my dear
Open the screens and the gears.
All for you.
The pumps
The tanks
The engine
All thud in unison.
You perceive a beautiful melody.
I block out shreiks and creeks.
Circling the heart
Similar to a stray dog fight or a used car dealer.
Are you a man or a mouse?
From which did this come out?
So treat it like another plaything.
Similar a goldfish
Ivory scars line her chest
Sharp stings when touched
Sharp stings when untouched.
To think...your heart a goldfish?
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 3:41 AM UTC
Master’s toy
Wants to be played with
Oh, please, come play with me
I am yours
And only yours
I think that you’d agree
Pick me up
By my puppet strings
And watch me dance around your bed
Pick me up
And amuse yourself
I want a place inside your head
Master! Master!
Come visit me
Inside my little dollhouse
I simply long
To be your plaything
You’re the cat, I’ll be the mouse
Master! Master!
I get lonely
When I’m not held within your clutch
As your doll
All I have
Is constant longing for your touch
There’s one purpose
I am trained for
And that’s for you to enjoy
Forever conditioned
Forever enslaved
To be Master’s little toy.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 10:57 AM UTC
I will not attribute honor
To easy principles and claims
That war is just a plaything
Of the murderous insane
For the Jews of Amsterdam
For the outcasts and the lame
The hard won liberation
For honor lays good claim
Let’s not attribute honour
Or repudiate the same
Without examination
Of the motives in the frame
Behind each complex battle
To bring calm or to inflame
Ten thousand tiny choices
One for honor, one for shame.
Jul 1, 2010
Jul 1, 2010 at 3:14 PM UTC
punishment, not fit
for a velvet plaything
treated like lobotomized dogs
vast vivid wilderness of pain
will you ever see through the fog
the wretchedness I adore
in my head, eternal hell
taken for granted our prizes are mounted
the hypocrisy we deplore
punishment not fit for a mangled heart
blisters these hands twitch
to be found, all is lost to start
feel the nervous itch
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 7:25 AM UTC
i felt Your beast stir
He called to the *****
the **** who lies within
and she answered Him
with whispered seductions
coaxing Him from His lair
filled with longing for Him
to emerge and sport with her
spreading herself wantonly
craving to be taken, devoured
eaten up and filled
made a plaything, consumed
the ***** inside me needs to see
the beast in You set free
her freedom to exist is in His gift alone
her purpose to rise to meet His lust
to take His stripes as her own
and bear them with pride
the beast in You will find release
inside the ***** who lives in me
Cynthia Pauline Jones 17/01/14
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
She knew, right afterward.
Amazing.
She knew.
I took her word for it.
Oo-Oo-Oocyte!
The largest, roundest cell
Females have. It is
Visible to the eye
Clothed or nakey.
With the largest surface
Volume in relation to
Her cell-fluid-gorged surface.
One is produced ea/month.
One?
Yowza.
Me?
Millions of the little buggers.
Millions! Yeah! THAT’s
The ticket!
And tiny those little tickets are.
Hardly more than a nucleus with
That powerhouse of the cell,
The Mitochondrial outboard motor,
Propelling the tail.
The smallest and straightest
Human cell
(Cool tail, though)
The juxtaposition is kind
Of amazing.
Large vs. small.
Roundest vs. straightest.
Tail-propelled nucleus
Vs.
Moon-shaped cytoplasm.
The opposite, embryologically-
Speaking.
And she was positive,
POSITIVE
We’d conceived.
Roughly 9 months later,
I was there. Physically.
The rest of me was
Possibly sunning in Togo.
Kind of freaked me out,
The birthing process,
The first time.
My son. My baby boy.
Our child.
5/28/91.
I’m more proud and more
Astonished at the man
My little baby has grown into
With each passing day.
Golden child, beginning
Life with blonde hair,
Almost white, darkening
As he grew into the French-
Indian DNA of his
Mom’s side of the family.
He is so much like
His Mother, for which
I’m very happy,
Because his Mother
Is simply amazing
And worthy of an entire
Slew of poems just
To describe her.
And I’ve another
Golden child
Gold blessing vein running
True and deep, different
Than his older brother
Of seven years,
Yet similar, opposite in
Some ways, having grown strong
As the little plaything for
His older brother’s friends,
Making him very tough,
Strong as a team of oxen,
A work ethic he inherited
From Dad, Mom, Brother
Yet fitting together as
Loving siblings can
When they have God
At the center of their lives.
Thank You, God, for
My two sons.
I’m protective, but I know
They do not belong to me.
They are Your blessings
To my wife and me.
They are Your blessings
To this world, set in motion,
Wound up to take what they see
And make it better, and
To prevent it from getting worse.
They will do Your work.
We were the biological
Vessels that delivered
Them from Your world
Before
To this world,
Now.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
i.
unfiltered asiatic plaything seeks
hypoactive cradle technocrat
evicting meaningful poach,
mendacious transcripts of
past events found in his
memoryless playhouse.
poplar crowd scribbles observations
outbound punch of laughter
sighs to the scrambled, ethnic
postgrad nation.
microfiche telegram exploits
meaning to deeper courtesies
current surrendered upon
entry.
ii.
psychotropic sustenance
fizz thru ***** vein corridor
secret mission lifestyle
learning fast in enormous packs of
tiny lies.
spew logic chagrin mediated
bloodstain; cerebus twitching
outside of beingself.
iii.
heart ceases,
sacred whitepaint moans.
o infidel,
strike thrice; a chord
binding us- nasty, *****
beads bleeding rich.
cloaked bushes tasting,
hisses cured human oaks;
tapered horns that sob,
casting waved heels.
iv.
dawn fallen, only concrete
possible now. separated by
thousands of what is not,
shocks disintricate; undwindling
patriots mailing lessness,
laughter sounds fetching
offband pitch.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 7:11 AM UTC
Text her. Send her messages that she won't know how to respond to. she'll read them and put her phone down. Stare at the read receipt for hours until you realize she's not picking the phone back up, she doesn't have anything to say to you.
Eat lots of chocolate. It has serotonin in it, the happy chemical. When you cuddle with her, your brain releases oxytocin. As long as you eat enough chocolate (and throw it up) you won't miss the oxytocin one bit.
Bleed. When she tells you that she cuts herself, cut deeper. This is guerrilla warfare now, and for every shot fired you must fire back.
Read your messages. Laugh at the nicknames she used. "Princess". "Baby". "Darlin". You were never her princess, never her baby. She was the child and you were merely her plaything.
Make art. Write dumb poetry about falling in and out of love, take photographs of your ****** thighs, paint a picture using only shades of red. Let her figure out what all these things mean.
Drink. Green tea, ***** over-priced lattes. Stay up all night crying. Wear stilettos. Sit in art museums all alone and wonder if being a starving artist is as much fun as it sounds. Take long showers and harmonize with your favorite songs through your tears. Use heavier, blacker eyeliner. Spend time on yourself. Adopt a cat. But most of all, remember this:
You can only love one person. Choose yourself
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
**This poem can be heard as a
Spoken word (read by me)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=
IoAeA6nYH5A**
There are some who fool around
With human DNA
They say it's a progessive step
For the world today.
The deciphered human genome
Is a plaything in their hands
Just a toy to then employ
And change the state of man.
"Change your child's DNA!
He's strong as a horse!
He can be, and he can see
Like a hawk, of course!"
Just like in the movies
They've conditioned us for that.
Vampires and werewolves
And woman morphed to cat!
We can all be cyborgs!
Robotic legs and things!
We can be like Batman
But with automated wings!
Let's just look at Genesis
Look at chapter 6
Those beast/man Nephilim
Did actually exist!
The Watchers came and mated
With human women fair
The Sons of God were demons,
So we'd best have a care!
God had to drown the demon-spawn
To save the human race
The waters flooded over them
And there was not a trace.
Now God found Noah perfect
For he had a pure bloodline
There was in him no change
From God's original design.
Now, folks, what will happen
When human beings aspire
To be like animals yet again?
This time there'll be FIRE!!!
What about our tender hearts?
Do they matter anymore?
The world's consumed with evil
You'd best know what's in store.
When we're no longer human
But have a cyborg mind
Will mankind ever be the same?
Godly? Loving? KIND?
Humans enslaved for weakness
Do you find that odd?
We will be a "Super Race"
Usurp the Will of God.
Will there be salvation?
Or will it be too late?
When men go and take the role
Of the God they hate?
Be glad that God loves us!
For we were made like Him.
He wants to take us from this place!
He wants us to WIN!!!
Is this all science fiction?
Watch the news! It's PLANNED!
Babies being altered
To unnatural lifespans!
Because of overweening pride
We mess with things divine
Enter human suffering -
EXIT HUMANKIND.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
Sugar baby
plaything for daddy
showers her in money
she’s his honey
Fulfills her lifestyle
widens his smile
hugs and kisses
never his mrs.
he’s paying her college fees
she’s often on her knees
has a child to feed
gives her what she needs
Is it prostitution?
or business transaction
Is either getting hurt
is it all just sport
Sugar is nice
to life adds spice
but too much can be bad for you
I hope their actions they don’t rue
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 8:46 PM UTC
Everyone is a joke
Says the clown
Her mother has lung cancer
Crack a joke
He's crying because I bullied him
Crack a joke
He killed himself a week later
Crack a joke
Hysteria
Loud blowhard laughter
Bulging blood-shot tear-filled eyes
Butterflies eating your intestines-
Serious nothing.
Everyone's always your plaything
You say it's because you're Albanian.
Male.
Because you just-dont-care.
Because we're all stupid.
Hypersensitive.
That's a cop out-
I think,
You're just a clown.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC