Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
*** 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.
judy smith Aug 2016
It’s New York Fashion Week, and there is a frenzy backstage as models are worked into their dresses and mob the assembled engineers for instructions of how to operate the technology that magically transforms a subtle gesture into a glowing garment suggestive of the bioluminescence of jellyfish. I know there’s not enough time for them to do their work. Almost instinctively, I find the designer and bargain for 20 more minutes.

While I wonder to myself how I got here, backstage at a runway show, I also know I am witnessing what may be the harbinger of how a fourth industrial revolution is set to change fashion, resulting in a new materiality of computation that will transform a certain slice of fashion designers into the “developers” of a whole new category of clothing. By driving new partnerships in tools, materials and technologies, this revolution has the potential to dramatically reshape how we produce fashion at a scale not seen since the invention of the jacquard loom.

The jacquard loom, as it happens, inspired the earliest computers. Ever since, textile development and technology have been on an interwoven path — sometimes more loosely knit, but becoming increasingly tighter in the last five years. Around that time, my colleagues and I embarked on a project in our labs to look at “fashion tech,” which at the time was a fringe term. These were pioneers daring to — sometimes literally — weave together technology and clothing to drive new ways of thinking about the “shape” of computation. But as we looked around the fashion industry, it became clear that designers lacked the tools to harness the potential of new technologies.

For a start, all facets of technology needed to be more malleable. Batteries, processors and sensors, in particular, had to evolve from being bulky and rigid to being softer, flexible and stretchable. Thus, I began to champion “Puck [rigid], Patch [flexible], Apparel [integrated],” an internal mantra to describe what I felt would be the material transformations of sensing and computation.

As our technologies have steadily become smaller, faster and more energy efficient — a progression known in the tech industry as Moore’s Law — we’ve gone on to launch a computer the size of a postage stamp and worked with a fashion tech designer to demonstrate its capabilities. In this case we were able to show dresses that were generated not just from sketches and traditional materials, but forward-looking tools (body scans and Computer Assisted Design renderings) and materials (in this case, 3-D printed nylon). At the same time, we integrated a variety of sensors (proximity, brain-wave activity, heart-rate, etc.) that allowed the garments themselves to sense and communicate in ways that showed how fashion — inspired in part by biology — might become the interface between people and the world around them.

Eventually, a meeting between Intel and the CFDA lent support to the idea that if technology could fit more seamlessly into designs, then it would be more valuable to fashion designers. The realisation helped birth the Intel Curie module, which has since made its way down the catwalk, embedded into a slew of designs that could help wearers adapt, interpret and respond to the world around them, for example, by “sensing” adrenaline or allowing subtle gestures to illuminate a garment.

As the relationship between fashion and technology continues to evolve, we will need to reimagine research and development, supply chains, business models and more. But perhaps more than anything, as fashion and technology merge, we must embrace a new strand of collaborative transdisciplinary design expertise and integrate software, sensors, processors and synthetic and biological materials into a designer’s tool kit.

Technology will inform the warp and weft of the fabric of fashion’s future. This will trigger discussions not just about fashion as an increasingly literal interface between people, our biology and the world around us, but also about the implications that data will generate for access, health, privacy and self-expression as we look ahead. We are indeed on the precipice of a fourth industrial revolution.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses
I gently rest on you my hands,
to reshape you, like the ocean does the sand.

I gather your wrists in my palms.
Lying skin to skin, pushing shudders through our calm.

My blistered smile, revised, renewed.
Color returns to me. I regain my hue.

For the longest, I tried to refuse.
I claimed the smile on my face, was not at all because of you.

You must have done something right.
or filled some sort of gap.
because every noise that's not your voice,
just sounds like breaking glass.
Redshift May 2013
we are

american

we do not have chinese mothers
that bind our feet
but we have lovers
that reshape our toes
into high heels
black
echoing words
that carve our stomachs
into caverns
edged with rib

we are

american

we are not forced
to follow anything
but society
is our king
ruling its malnourished army
with a fat-ringed
finger

i am

american

and i will build my own army
of flip-phones
defying
the neverending onslaught
of iphones

i am

american

and i will not reshape
my body
to please you
i will not
reshape my thinking
to satisfy you

we
the
people
will once again
wage
war
Jesse stillwater Nov 2018
The wind roars —
then stills to listen
to the spoken grandeur
from the soul of the
angry autumn sky
Its quickly moving grandeur
moving  way beyond
a trailing moment's wake

   Change often goes voiceless —
the autumn wind
needs not consent
to bare the trees;
disguising all symmetry
of yesterdays fleeting glance

Overarching that which
can no longer be
   as it once was —
A  bitter cold gust preys
on this aging bark
stirring to the roots
of my soul

Will true nature’s  
powerful essence
ever reshape the scars
these wind-whipped
human feather's
mask ? 

   The wind roars —
   then stills to listen ,...

and I wonder why
I can’t be the change
I see

Stillwater in the wind


Jesse Stillwater ... November 2nd, 2018
Dr Zik Mar 2015
A philosopher thinks
A writer expresses
A planner makes plans
A poet feels, conceives and reflects with emotions
To reshape the world using a mortar of love of nature
Paul Holmes Jan 2012
Liquid clouds sail by
Between green branches they float
Angler’s face is blurred.

Large frog hops then swims
Stirring the placid picture
Grotesque forms reshape.

Stream now calm and still
Sky reflects countryside scene
Tranquil Man and World.
Krysel Anson Sep 2018
We create our own stories,
our own gods and reshape our own peoples
We also create our own demons and enemies.

An old retired fighter once said to a traveler,
"we learn not run from the enemy, but go towards them."
In learning, his new pupil destroyed his heart
and his lovers. And them, destroyed their own in turn.
The traveler sits with piles of stories of all kinds now,
from all over the world, in a library shelf
like a white elephant of impotent rage in his room.

For decades the populations of the world
have been subject of mass experimentation by its overseers.

In other stories, a people's Creator has gone mad
working for his human creations
which required using toxic chemicals to turn
their raw materials into life, while working to
reveal our own gift of growth from attachments
and into self-knowledge, compassion.

For decades also, populations of the world
are kept apart from their own full living potential
not because of some evil or mad Creator
or some insanely depicted required competition towards
reproduction or respect.

Rather, because we continue to face our tasks
through our mistakes and failures, knowing
our deadly blows from through those we reject,
shame and escape from, as our teachers of compassion
if not more than those that we gravitate to
or already belong and accept as our own.

Thus continues perhaps the stories of people's
potentials outside of their fear's many
perverted versions. #
Work in progress
Ocean Blue Apr 2015
5774 days ago,
You appeared in my night,
365 days ago,
You came back within sight,
122 days ago,
Suddenly you chose to escape,
Leaving me alone
With memories to reshape.
Now I sit
Next to the old olive tree,
Counting its rings,
One, two, three...
You know how
I'm patient
And life has shown,
So resilient.
One day, maybe
You'll send a sign
And again,
Let our hearts entwine.*

<3
“When we hand down
This flag to posterity
Paying prices of life
To the country's
Age-old sovereignty
It is  with a word of caution
'This generation
Should accord due attention
To handing down
To the coming generation
A new Ethiopia
To fruits of development
A cornucopia!' ”

“Yes, grandpa
Working day and night
We shall take Ethiopia
To a new developmental height!

Once Ethiopia was great
How could we that forget?

The country's renaissance
Firm we shall advance!

For common growth
Resources we
Shall harness,
Allowing the region
Soar with wings of success!”//

I am happy to announce the birth of my poetic drama
In the Vortex of Passion's Wind
By United P.C-publication without risk and quickly (Austria)
ISBN 978-3-7103-2109-2
Release date09092015
GBP14,90
About the book
Shock treatments that attend the wrong turns of life reshape people's mindset anew and nudge them out of their slumbers. On the other hand, as forewarned is forearmed, the sagacious learn from the lapse of the trigger-happy than indulge in the vortex of passion's wind. Miss not this page turner and cliffhanger mainly dealing with ***/AIDS in a campus of a country worst hit by the pandemic.

Please buy and read the book.You could also get your collection of poems published by www.unitedP.c-publishquickly and without a risk
A poem I wrote on a flag day nothing the national feeling being eroded by cultural imperialism
LJ Chaplin Aug 2014
You are the earthquake,
Tearing apart the ground
Beneath my aching feet
After years of running from
Your destruction,
You let me fall through the cracks
Like sand through fingertips,
Consumed by the dark,
Falling past wonderland
And the other side of the Earth,
Drowning in a sea of stars,
Flushed away to the farthest reaches
Of the universe
Just so I can feel beautiful again,
To reshape myself to fit the new mould
That I constructed after you had
So effortlessly contorted the previous one with your bare hands,
Like smoke and mirrors,
An optical illusion,
There are things that your eyes
Cannot see that are burnt into
My skin,
That I can't scrub from me as if
They were mud stains,
From skidding to avoid the collision
Of my dignity.
I am left suspended in ignorant bliss,
Silent and calm,
Comfortable and collected.
Josie Stewart Dec 2020
My life is oft haunting,
Unbearably daunting,
I don't even feel it;
It's freakishly taunting.
Whenever I close the door,
You make it open.
The light always shines through,
Though my life is broken.

So when I fall in the dark,
You're there to save me.
You'll guide me forever;
You'll mold and reshape me.

Still I'm left wondering
If you're still pondering
My lowly existence.
Who would consider me?
Whenever I choose the wrong,
You can make it right.
The light always shines through,
Though I am in the night.

So when I fall in the dark,
You're there to save me.
You'll guide me forever;
You'll mold and reshape me.

But I still feel doubt and pain.
My friends have left me here…

But now I can see truth—
There's more than enough proof;
She's right in the open.
God, I deserve reproof!
Whenever I pushed away,
You came back to me.
The light always shines through,
Even when I'm weary.

So when I fall in the dark,
You're there to save me.
You'll guide me forever;
You'll mold and reshape me.

I may yet forget you,
But you will still save me.
My life is in your hands,
You'll always avail me…
Written September 19, 2007, rewritten 2020
Robert Zanfad Sep 2009
This was my sand yesterday,
Hot and gritty,
Yet comforting, embracing
Under my towel.
Troves of precious shards of shell
Mapped into mind
With the jellyfish abandoned
By the tide
Just out of reach of cool waters
And a pool carved
With ramparts and towers,
An ambitious child's construction
Proudly pronounced eternal.
But we took pictures
To remember,
Anyway.

Now, after breakfast,
Into blue too perfect
This morning's sun rose
To a sky spilled
Cloudless and clear
Over new land
Reformed by night swells
Gulls and terns blown on,
Friends' footprints cleared,
The castle lost
By waves or wind's gusts.
It seems alien now.
My toes dig ever deeper
To discover if warmth
Is still here, hiding below
The surface of what I can see.

Morning's winds fling
Biting bits chipped
From far-off mountains
Cheek and legs sting
In force of anger born
Far offshore,
While the children nestle
My jacket for shelter
It can't give them today.
The tourists left - the sand is ours
To reshape, imprint with feet again.
And plan for tomorrow -
Umbrella, blanket, pails,
Embrace sea's eternal rhythm.
We'll stay.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2019
Alaska:
“though the whole world should be mad at once
though the elements should be changed, though the angels should rebel: yet verity (irrefutable truth) cannot lie.”  
                                                         ­                  Erasmus of Rotterdam

<> <>

for BJ Donovan, a fine, fine poet
<><><>

verity, irrefutable truth, cannot lie,
or belie it’s non-contradictory nature,
even, in a small airport, a one runway affair,
somewhere in Alaska
ribboned tween icy crags and dagger-ous peaks,
low cloud coverings of sub-zero visibility,
that inquire, in an indigenous tongue
of the flying fool pilots,

“really?”

if I or you ask me why I’m here,
Alaska,
the answers come in only three Heinz varieties,
true or false positive, no differentiation needed,
the other, is called
“one who doesn’t know how to ask”

you know him,
the simpleton, the simple one, me,
who can’t frame the question without

risking that he frame himself

betraying and displaying his woeful ignorance,
a veneered confidence of knowing so little about much

in the shed, a/k/a
‘the terminal,’ we wait,
me and an ex-Buddhist priest,
head stubble shaved, of course, round horn rimmed glasses wearing,
stone washed jeans blue, the color of his eyes,
reflecting mine as well as the blue glacier ice
surrounding us both, we,
the extraneous human eagle interlopers

showed him the Erasmus quote, provoking one of them,
thin lined, whimsical, eye-glinting smiles of those
who know the answer
to the knotty ones, or,
know better, that knotty questions one asks himself
when high up in the mountainous glacier ranges,
get answered just by silent patience

he smiled for an eternity of
at least five minutes,
my heart pulsating big time,
this modern man anticipating, in his calm, dulcet two tones,
his understanding of another ancient translating another,
even more ancient, speaking:

”the world is indeed mad,
through neglect letting the elements warp, glaciers melt;
the angels have indeed rebelled at the
foreseen fated falsehoods perpetrated,
verity,
torn asunder,
and the line between balance and imbalance,
so jaggedly ripped in too many places that verity a victim
so badly assaulted, its face is no longer identifiable by AI, worse,
so covered, dying, undiscoverable.

but you ask!
ask of yourself, asking of others, and tolerating
uncurled, uncut uncertainty, you retreat and reconsider,
this then is your answer!
it is the
ASKING,
that is verity, itself! there can be no lying thing in the
quest of questioning
that accepts, rejects, and unceasingly asks again^

this is a the only irrefutable truth and what it asks of you:

never accept the illogic of belief, let your own eyes be the best judge;
ask and ask thrice, be satisfied that being disastrously dissatisfied
is the norm, the mean,
the line toward a perfection that may not ever exist(ed)
for our flaws define us, thus so much greater is our truths when we
we reshape them, ourselves, for verity itself is not so hard to find,
but the finding of one self is too difficult for most


for asking is too painful,
too primordial, and why I am no longer a priest nor teacher,
but a simple observer of the answers that can be found in the
silences of places,
the Alaska’s inside of us,
where nature’s sets
an open table for anyone
wiling to just ask...”
8/18/19
S.I., N.Y.

^”It is not in the asking, but in the searching and wrestling that we gain clarity.”
LonelyPoet Mar 2017
You find yourself thinking in color. It permeates through every inch of what you know. Thoughts get processed in them and translated by it. Although I favor the one that shines most bright, I barely claim it. I lack of it. In fact, I come to deny it, to exclude it, rather than make it my own.

Lets think through color. Nelson lives in the reflective imposition of it. She strips it down and eats it whole. She hugs its core and stares right at it. She owns it, unlike the string of light I keep refusing.

He, she, they, constructed this. We, you, them, distort it, reshape it, bend it up, and cut it down.

It is the only lineage that connects us all. Dickinson saw the strength of the grass like your mom did and with the vision you do. But, color gets lost in translation. They used Doves to instill fear and swordsmen saw Paper as a sign of truce.

It hurts as well. Obsidian carries pain within. Marks on his back from a remote past, a past that is still dragged to the present. Obscure in its presence. Regarded as biologically distinct. Yet, we now know better, or pretend to.

Blends. Blends in, it merges, fuses, makes new. Transforms. Distorts. She made me see the core once, and it bleeds.

Not the primary but the others, from distant lands on a new canvas, filling in the outlined sketch.
TheMystiqueTrail Sep 2018
A peg was once sad, for
it was square, and
found itself in a round hole.

A misfit, it thought - a square peg in a round hole, so to speak.

Its search for a square hole went on till
one day the Master said:
“Many pegs are that way – square.
They find themselves placed in round holes
and hammer themselves in, only to break.

Success lies in reshaping your edges
to the shape of the hole
for a perfect fit”.
attitude, square, peg, Master, success
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
"Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood"
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)


~~~


perhaps.

can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?

my voice poetic keener, age-softened,
grows less popular
for it
no longer reaches for
christmas ornament words and creamy cake-in-the-rain imagery

leave that to the better ones.

cherish simplest:
coming home to fresh sheets,
plumped pillows,
music,
tousled hair on pillowed histories,
river walks,
the lightest hand touch that rouses
the fireplace of contentment to glow briefly,
from logs that are more embered ash moments
than substance
capable of more flaming

the rumpled strivings of the young poets,
creativity of the masters of
voice and dancings bodies,
shopping lists of life~items that
reshape, restore my old~ness,
the revelations of the historians,
inducements to believe
in yet, more.

these exteriors are comprehendable.

don't forget the orange juice,
the first chilled swig from the plastic,
confirms I am breath-yet-capable,
one more poem-mission ready,
the mission objectives still not published.

Sun east welcomes me,
woman puttering kitchen coffee noises
it is neither spring yet or winter gone,
in-between like me,
in-between naissance and history remnant

question thy fiat,
Mr. Eliot,
cannot frame myself,
my who-I-am
six decades of myself.

can it then ere be said,
his poetry communicated
or ere contained ever a single
genuine word?

can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?
Infamous one Jan 2014
Pushed through the pain
Body not use to jogging
The fear of inurying a bad knee
Music at the right tempo
Deep breaths to give the muscles oxygen
Clearing the mind focused on the jog
Stopping is quitting
Slowing down is showing weakness
Push to get fit take back your endurance
Find discipline reshape your body
Get fit do it right make everything tight
Natasha Feb 2019
Fits in piece by piece
more pieces more strength
You can build anything with...
Lego Blocks

Then break what you built
reshape and construct it
as you remake what once was
into something new with...
Lego Blocks

Build a plane
Build a dragon
Build whatever you can imagine with...
Lego Blocks

Excrutiatingly painful
stepping on a single one
hop hop hopping around
shouts filling around with...
"Lego Blocks!!!"
I stepped on Lego and cursed for days
Darren Scanlon Sep 2015
Somewhere in between
the waking and the dream,
I can feel you close to me.

Just before times hands
reshape the desert sands,
I can feel you reach for me.

In the blink of tear stained eyes,
watching weary to the skies,
I can see you cry for me.

In the breaking of the dawn,
in the dew upon the lawn,
I can see you smile for me.

In the bright rays of the sun,
in the new day just begun,
I can feel you warming me.

In the beating of my heart,
that once was torn apart,
I can feel you healing me.

In the shadow of the past,
from the dawn unto the last,
I can hear you call for me.

As I take my last deep breath,
as I fear the grip of death,
will you please just wait for me?


Written by Darren Scanlon, April 2013.
This revised version written 15th March 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
Danielle Rose Mar 2013
Many will try to break you
shake your very foundations
degrade you
reshape you
displace you
The instinct to **** thrives in every mans will
A shrilling reality underlines every fatality
and evey empty shell
condemned to hell
When you're bitten do you bite?
Do you hunt your prey in the night?
Power playing the doe eyes lost in the headlights
Ending them with excellerating spite
For the sake of the fight or the game?
Isnt it all the same?
There's nothing here to gain
We're all dead in the eyes of fate
We either **** or self distruct
No matter what end of this spectrum your on
You have your enemies and allies
eating it up
It's disturbing as **** but we watch it live
we live it
we breathe it
colonise
A seducing feature in everyones eyes
We must admit most of us crave the dark side
Kyle Kind Apr 2012
As I bask in the suns warming glow, I feel nothing anymore.
Its ethereal rays cleanse me.
Burn me.
Heal me.
Calm me.
Allowing me to let go and reshape my form.
Allowing me to start anew.

The mask cracks and crumbles over my face.
Pieces falling and disappearing before they hit the ground.
My true face hasn't been shown in years.
The sunlight feels amazing.
K Mae Sep 2013
respond*
find these bones
immerse them in saline lymph, tidal bay
grow sinew, venous pathways
overflow
hear turtle dolphin whale
entrain common pulsing
palpate boundaries  
reshape
broadcast one secret vast owning smile
inspired by Vircapio, his responses, and his poem Afissos... alchemy of recognition, shelter in the storm
Today I walked to the park and back
And saw suburbia rearranged into dizzying distortions
All the trees had a purplish tint
And on the grass, I saw multicoloured light reflecting off the dew
When I got home
I attacked all the imagery with a dagger to reshape reality
And a blank mirror to recreate the world in my head.

The world that was quiet is humming again
I hear choirs of crickets and choral basslines
Cacophonous and ecstatic in the constant confusion
The dull concrete is shot open with marquee moonlight
Indulgence pouring out, free-flowing like communion
And painted onto canvases like rain on a car window
Daydreams and delusions are ice cream melting, sticky and sap-like on your chin
Clouds pixelate with diamond edges
Voices ring out in a flurry
And there isn't a soul in sight.

So I breathe in the air
And let all the sounds and smells and limitations of reality colour my imagination once again
Daydreamed delusions and nightmarish reality are one
Filaments in the vibrant violence
Until the summer fades away again.
spring is coming
Tina Fish Nov 2012
In all directness I’ve lost my voice.
Enveloped by an irrational fear
of picking up the pen.
Thinking twice about every line.
As we shift and life materializes
before our eyes we find it harder
to say the things worth saying to ourselves.

Calm that beating heart, let it rest.

This life is tumulus.
Like a disappointed teenager
backdoor rebel, your biker
all bruised and blue
the guy who lies to you
out of habit or the girl
who’ll spread her legs
just to make sure beds
stay warm, or the grocer
who’ll stock rotten fruit
to meet the bills or people
who **** for oil, for drugs, for fun.

Disappointed, every last one of them.

So we fight back,
by puffing on our bongs
by disconnecting to our palms
by blasting the music on some large
stereo system, surround sound, or 3D vision
we spray paint on walls, or we fall prey to our whims
we bet on winning three hands straight
or decide we know our own fate,
or some of us just sit,
and wait,
for something, anything to happen
to shatter, to break apart, to give birth to some
black hole that’ll **** it all up and spit out something
back again. Anything we can reshape or begin.

But after chaos comes even more chaos.

And with loss comes anger,
mounted, building, and enraged,
like raised pitchforks chasing town monsters,
oh the horror, some of us might not bare to see it
won’t believe it, or try to bargain it away,
and not feel the earth shake from aftershock.
It’s too difficult to soak it up.
Let’s not tear down what is functioning fine
Just so we can live another lie?
I’m fine with mine, where it rests inside
a mask so well displayed,
that even I believe it some days.

Why change?

The question that lingers on the page,
Stumped by fear of jumping out of comfort zones,
Paralyzed by the thought that home
isn’t where you heart is, but rather,
the space your spirit needs to breathe.

And with that word
the realization of responsibility,
this burden it makes,
this weight that we can’t wait
to throw off to
another day, maybe
another time, maybe
could you keep your voice
down lady? Just after this last drink
baby, and I swear I’ll get back to you,

hey, I want my rite of passage too.

But the world moves too fast,
asks too much, doesn’t know when
to stop, drunk on its own axis,
either get off your *****
or be swept by the tide,
because there’s no where
you can run and hide
no matter how hard you try
you’re gonna have to listen to what you already know.

But guess what happens to people like that?

They grow.
F White Jan 2015
Reshape the void-
add a backbone
form my lips
mould my sentences
build my breath.

make me human again
rebirth acceptance love hope life future universe positive optimism
Lauramihaela Nov 2014
Being a writer
Is not a part-time job,
Like being a nurse
Or a teacher:
Where clocking in
And out
Is as simple
As lifting and putting down
A pen.

No,
Writers have words
Flowing though their veins;
Poignant thoughts and emotions
Shape and reshape themselves
Into poems in the writer's mind
Almost by instinct.

But
Do not be fooled:
The writer's world
Is no paradise:
Thoughts tug at our brains
In the middle of the night,
Like a child pulling
At its mother's coat
Beckoning us to the page
Where finally we free the thoughts
That have been held captive.

And finally with sleepy,
Satisfied eyes,
We place the final fullstop
On our latest masterpiece
.
Graff1980 Nov 2023
Everything is pure imagination,
colors pulled from the mind’s
massive palette,
as new dimensions reveal themselves
in swirling abstractions
of curling rainbow action.

The colors she sees internally
are multi layered and 3d,
rapidly releasing childlike energy
and remaking her inner existence
into a safe fantasy,
as she takes that imagery
and makes it her waking reality.

She takes the power to paint and reshape
a poorly formed life of pain
into a playground of
crimson, purple, yellow,
pink, and blue
for everyone to view.

Everything fades to background noise,
and there is only art unfurling,
as the unconscious writes its own story,
as time moves at its own pace,
letting awe and intense focus
color her sweet cherubic face.
Miranda Mar 2012
Your lips are dry like mine, and the stubble on your upper lip and cheeks scratches my face.
I can tell you are exactly what I want in bed.
You are fun, energetic, controlling, a little bit selfish so I will actually have to work, too.
I don’t let anything happen, though,
as much as my gut and my blood want it to happen,
because I’ve given my heart and my brain joint custody and they both know you’re a terrible decision,
that especially being in your bed and
smelling your skin and
touching your hair and
even looking at you in public is a risk.

I want to be in your body and your brain and your heart,
but you just don’t feel as intensely as I do, probably about anything,
because you’re just a boy,
you’re just a person with priorities and thoughts and control,
and I’m just a girl,
I’m just a bag of bones and blood and dreams. I feel and you don’t. You just don’t.

I am made of bones and blood and dreams.
I am made of hopes and fear and adrenaline.
I am made of tears and teeth and tangled hair.
I am made of loathing and gluttony and predatory instincts.
I am made of skin and curves and fingertips.
I am made of orange and blue and brown.

You could be so much to me.
Your body wants to. Your body wants to hold mine, you are my fire at night, you let me put my cold ******* feet on your legs and keep them there so they would warm up.
You want to. Your body wants this, it wants mine,
it wants to feel my skin and my lips and my nails.
Your hair wants to be tangled in my fists and pulled tight.
Your hips want to crush mine with your weight,
to match the heat of our bodies face to face.
Your hands want to curl around mine.
I felt it, for just a few minutes you held mine like a father holds his child’s little fists,
or like a lover holds the blessed fingers of his companion’s hands close so that they will not stray.

The fist, that is our motif.
I want to punch you, to hit you on the *** and in the face and against your chest.
I want to wrap your hair around my fists and press your cheeks to my closed hands.

How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes.

In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die.
Where you invest your love, you invest your life.


How wise you are, Mumford, you and your Sons.

Will I do this again to myself?
Will I continue to climb into your bed,
to press my tired cheek against your tired chest,
to wrap my weary fingers around your lion’s mane?
Will I keep testing my emotional limits on you, Mt. Kilimanjaro of the West?
I have to ask myself these questions and decide what to do. My sanity for the next month or so depends on it.
I made a promise to myself not to blindly and needlessly give away my affections,
not to accept love and touch where it didn’t belong.
Have I broken this promise already?
Have I already given up on myself, on my will, on my future, on my ability to dream and reshape myself?

I don’t know if I can stay away from you. I truly don’t know.
The smart part of me, my brain,
my dying brain,
reasonably denies you as an option.
My brain listens to you when you say you will break my heart.

My heart doesn’t hear that at all.

Can you lie next to her and give her your heart, your heart
As well as your body, and can you lie next to her and confess your love, your love
As well as your folly?

But tell me now where was my fault, in loving you with my whole heart?

Lead me to the truth and I will follow you my whole life


I felt your bones,
for you are so thin.
I felt your stretched muscles and a hot need to hold you close to my body.
I have not cried about it yet but I feel tears beating against the backs of my eyes,
which you said were pretty, and Kelso said they had sunflowers inside of them on good days
and when they are green I can’t stop smiling because I think when my eyes are green they are sexier and prettier
and that it’s God’s way of telling me to be confident,
that I am lovely and worthy and must work for the things I desire.
annh Sep 2019
Dream your life in watercolours,
Live your life in oils,
Frame your canvases with time and distance;

Hang each by a silver thread,
In a windowed gallery of memories,
Exhibit often and without discrimination;

Celebrate the beauty in your clumsiest brushwork,
Accept the imperfections in your mastery,
Reshape your truths, as light plays and colour transforms.

‘If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you: I am here to live out loud.‘
- Émile Zola
Jim Sularz Apr 2013
© 2010 (Jim Sularz)


I am neither man nor woman -
or naked flesh and blood.

I journey at the speed of compassionate thought -
without limitation or boundary.

I draw near only in peace and I will reshape the world -
like no great army ever could.

I am Christmas, 1914.

I am gentle and childlike -
a joyful melody in the hearts of young and old.

I am spirit without malice or hate -
a mother’s undying love, a father’s embrace.

I reign above the loftiest mountaintops –
dwell in the silent depths of blue oceans and seas.

I am Light eclipsing all other lights -
to heal and comfort those in need.

I am all-knowing and eternal  -
the universe, my heavenly abode.

And upon my divine mantelpiece,
I affix - all things beautiful.
My perspective on our Creator.
You wonder why I dwell in the dark,
You wonder why I never call back,
You wonder why I be a lost sane,
I wonder if I’ll ever see you again,

Evading the city flare,
Evading to the mellow lair,
Evading the caramelised routine,
Evading a contagious whine,

A thing of pity, years and hence,
A sweet  obsession, that only commence,
You wonder if I have lost every sense,
I wonder if I ever made any sense,

You wonder why I invest so much,
You wonder why I run on loss,
You wonder what became of us,
I wonder if it's fantasy or lust,

Come! Come! Sure let's reshape our maps,
What has been and maybe perhaps,
Swoosh! Whoosh! Be undone and done!
How awfully convenient, is it not, hon?!

Exuberant creatures they flatter me often,
Those lofty lot, enticing I find none,
Sure I shall allow an unbiased  trial!
Sheath the heart, her eyes a biased thrill!

Never mention my poached heart,
And we'll get along just fine, love,
And be forever entwined,
In that same old fairytale, concubine!

You wonder why I am a repugnant aristocrat,
You wonder why I am a narcissist in grave dearth,
You wonder why I am a deception to change,
I wonder how passionately I was never your gain...

Of course I am not an island of my own,
Of course I am but a mere fraction of the whole,
Oh! Tempting balms! they embrace me so,
Quite the way you wrapped me Cozy, long ago,

You wonder why I am stuck in a rut,
You wonder why I choose not to be smart,
You wonder why I wait without disgust,
I wonder where my rescue boat is lost….

You wonder why I let the years fly by,
You wonder why I live in the bygone and deny,
You wonder why I never forget your voice,
You wonder why I keep every memory alive,

I wonder if I'll ever see you again,
I wonder if it will all be the same.....
Rob Holt Sep 2010
Ashamed is the outcome, the source of the constant struggle between the ordinary and the extra.
I am the shame, the continuous blame among everything you find to be so difficult.
Only hide from the worst and only show your true colors when you feel that it is a must.
Tear down your walls and break your silence, I've given you the truth, and I've given you everything.
Blessed is he that walks among the living, for we are all marching towards our end.
In one way or another.
Take apart the things that hold you back and reform them, reshape them.
Give them the power to bring you to a stronger point.
I only held the light for you so you would understand, yet I am still in the dark.
Struggle, leave me. Loosen your grip and open my eyes to light.
I am alive, I hold my hands up and touch the sky.
Tear down my walls and break my silence, give me the truth, please give me everything.
The only words holding me here are the ones that slip between the others.
And I'm just lingering, floating here in my imperfections.
In the spaces between the words.
r.holt2010
A Simillacrum Mar 2019
I can rewire
everything about myself.
I can reshape
every facet to fit your pieces,
but why would I?
I'll tell you. I forget my worth.
Did I ever have worth, anyway?
Did you ever hold it, either,
to be fair. What's anyone worth?

I can rewire
every aspect and affect.
I can reshape
every facet to fit your tropes,
but why would I,
when you don't seem to fit my soul?
Can you ever change that? You can.
I know it full well. I know it first
hand. It hasn't been worth it.

What's the weight of a goodbye,
when tasked to tell someone you love?

What's the weight of a sharp knife,
when used to cut tangential lines?

What's the wait on a goodbye,
when its utterance will free you?
phil roberts Nov 2016
Stay the moon
Cloudless and glowing
In her naked splendour
With her silver-white light
Cutting shadows
With sudden edges
Sharp enough to shave a man's face
Let her alien ambience
And constant strangeness
Reshape perception

And how stars sparkle
Heavenly diamonds on velvet night
So very many to see
And more beyond numbers
That our eyes will never see
And every moving star
Holds it's clutch of planets
An uncountable number
Of unheard stories

                                    By Phil Roberts
Danny Wolf Oct 2016
I've reached the house that once was a speck
within thick layers of a forrest no longer visited.
Its red clay walls were cracked and crumbling,
ready to become a pile of dust and ash-
remnants of a place ignored and long forgotten.
The roof was caving,
tiles missing or rank with mildew,
and consumed by tiny holes that let flashes of sunlight break through.
The foundation of this red clay house
was weak and tired,
barely able to support the deteriorating red clay walls.
A cobblestone pathway,
walked upon daily many moons ago,
led me to the door.
Of all the decay and ruin that plagued the red clay house,
the door remained firm,
and the lock thick and strong.
It's been long since entered.
Such a strange little key hole,
such a foreign yet familiar place.
I circled, circled, circled
the red clay house,
searching for the key,
or any way in.
So barren the space around the red house,
just dirt and little pieces of fallen clay.
Not a place to hide the key,
not a crack big enough to enter.
I went to my knees, and prayed for an answer,
     I knew this was my home.
Tears fell from my eyes
as I pleaded for my life.
They hit the sweet Earth,
and I watched a miracle occur.
Where my prayers had fallen,
I found the answer.
A pool of wet red clay had formed of my tears and Earth.
I took the hands which have shaped my life,
and dug them deep inside.
I carried that red clay to my home,
and began repaving the cracks in the wall,
carefully examining the damages,
finding the causes,
and forgiving myself for all the years I spent without a single visit.
The cracks take long to repair,
consistent care,
touching directly the spaces that hurt.
From the foundation, to rooftop I work and work,
watch the house reshape day by day.
Still,
I must fall to my knees and pray for the answers,
let my tears fall to the Earth
and create medicine.
Everywhere I step now,
flowers sprout from the ground,
vibrant colors shining in the sun,
I water them daily,
the work is never done.
I am still reaching my hands in pools of red clay,
and paving the cracks that will always
find their way up from the depths.
I have unlocked the front door,
found the key under my tongue
the day I prayed to be let in.
Oh, how the light shined so bright inside,
not through tiny cracks in the roof,
or cracks in the walls of red clay,
but in my hands
when I stepped through that door.
The hands that paved the cracks,
the hands that reached up to the Sky
and asked for rain
on the days that my tears could not create enough clay
to fix the cracks that threatened to tear down
all the work I had done.
The hands that replant the seeds after a harsh winter,
and unlocked that front door.
The hands scarred and callused
that will never stop paving the cracks.
These cracks are no longer ominous,
no longer chooser of my homes destiny,
for when the home is found,
it can not be forgotten,
and when the door is opened,
it can not be locked again.

— The End —