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(contains references to sensitive issues)

She’s just a babe
he’s only two
of youth refill
they’re broken in

but leave no mark  
so they're unspoiled
for clients booked
it's all arranged

no tracks you'll leave
their brain's not through
not 'til they’re three
so chill out dame

the program works
divert impel
‘'you crazy sh-t
here take this pill’

nobody hears
if told some tales
but they won't talk
their lips are sealed

from dot they’re trained
they’re here for us
don't have to guess
‘you talk, you die!’

so pay the fee
their price is high
and bring this dog
they’ll do it all

and shouldn’t you
take all you're due
you work real hard-
on nectar sup
-
Stop! Not so quick
for veils can lift
and imprints made
don’t ever die

archival facts
reveal themselves
when day arrives
you’ll face the Judge

and when you breach
a petal new
it injures both
and gear stick shifts

you've soiled life's bed
with squalid stains
now own the Sh-t
says mirror man







  


             
From time to time an instance comes to light involving well-organized abuse at an almost unimaginable level.  Children from a very young age are trained to provide all manner of ****** services to meet the demands of deviant and sadistic clients.  Contrary to what people may think, this happens not just in so-called 'third-world countries,' but in more prosperous lands too.  

Even where there is significant corroboration for the veracity of such accounts, survivors can suffer the further indignity of not being believed.  There is some movement and improvement in knowledge but more needs to be acknowledged and understood, not only by colleagues and other professionals providing care, but society at large.  

It all makes one ponder what leads a perpetrator to act this way.  Whilst it helps to understand some act out trauma they themselves received, it is unacceptable behaviour, is still a criminal offence - and it hurts others.   We all have choice to decide ahead what we would do if offered an easy way to cross that line.  Decency requires we resolve to remember who we want to be in essence and retain this reality check:  how would I feel if this was my wife, my child?   Refuse to abuse another.  

Some boundaries simply should never be breached, even if one is promised immunity from repercussions, e.g. told 'the child won't remember – it won’t hurt them.'   Many victims do remember and either way, such incursions rob them of a normal life, something many take for granted.  The truth is they are massively, negatively affected on one level or another, often in multiple ways, at whatever age such incursions take place.  

The reality is that transgressing on another's boundaries on any level not only harms the recipient but also those violating others.  It alters and destroys something in the offender, immediately recognizable or not, and by extension the wider community is affected.  

On looking in the mirror an offender may see at best a deluded half-life.  As my poem concludes, who would want to be meeting that inner witness to their corrupt and heartless behaviour, their real character looking back at them through the 'man* in the mirror...'

*(either gender can offend - some women sexually abuse too.  When a perpetrator takes a good look in the mirror of reality, they may well find themselves  confronted with the enormity of what they have done, and who they have become)
this is it,
the downfall of our empire that took so long to build.
it’s over.
while the music of defeat is playing,
the princess can’t hear the beautiful, sad melody.
all this girl hears is noise.
she walks through the ruins of her empire.
has this happened because of her mistakes?
slowly, it begins to rain.
but this rain is nothing compared to her tears.
her senses aren’t working properly. she can only see.
she sees the hatred in your eyes.
your stillness that sets her off.
your expression reveals anger.
some things she can’t see right now.
the princess doesn't see her mistakes.
she can’t see what pain she caused you.
but what she will see eventually is another girl in your arms.
she’s prettier than the princess and doesn’t lie to you.
she will keep all your secrets and make you happy.
she won’t make mistakes and she’ll be perfect.
she won’t be the broken princess, she’ll be your princess.
the invisible girl will see that she wasn’t worth it
and she’s going to run and not stop till she finds someone who wants her.
even if it means leaving home and everything behind.
one day later she sees a white rose.
it has been torn by the rain and withered.
life and beauty has left it.
when the shattered girl will see you,
she can see all the life and beauty in you and your new princess.
the destitute girl will envy your princess.
Willow Oct 29
She will see them always now
The angel numbers  and the simple signs.
With the hope of learning the strings
Of all you have to offer
While the day is still light.

She will see them always now
The plate numbers and the street signs.
With the hope of seeing the truth
Of the third eye’s offer
While the day is still light.

She will see THEM always now
The strayed hair and the warmed face.
With the hope of experiencing all
Of the moments to be reached
While the day is still light.

She sees a human.
She loves my blistered, worn hands.
She loves my dreams of impracticality.
She loves my memories.

Thank goodness she’s my golden hour all the time
I’m in my prime; at the cusp of my development.
A few more years of growth makes decay a lot more relevant…
Glass Elephant,
Glass Elephant,
Irrelevance, benevolence, compassion, or malevolence;
I’m one of few who sees it sums no difference.
Glass objects.
Or Elephants.
Irrelevance,
Irrelevance

Striving for motion, with motive elusive
Each thing I endeavor is far too exclusive
I need something inclusive, objectively singular
A sinusoidal wave with a mean lacking integers
Peace in zero and equilibrium inclusion
Glass Elephant
Glass Elephant
Delusions, Delusions
Reza Bavar Jun 2016
What is a Legacy
What's the equation that leads to the sum that is
A
Human
Life
The curtain draws as it must and
when it's done...
We spill out of this "Life" a grocery bag of idiosyncrasies, neuroses, hypocrisies, and other I-sees
What are we in the end but broken pieces of a puzzle we leave for others to assemble--who cares if the pieces fit.
Someone found a Kind word here
Another a Generosity
A memory of a Lie
Proof of a Cruelty
Acts of Humanity by a human being acting...
Who knows me well enough to define my Legacy?
Who else but "I"
I like spoken word poetry (a lot) and this poem works best if it's read in that type of tone.
The world sees you only in part.
Outward, maybe a common ****.

But the mind presents beauty

and to see your kind deeds...

Inward you are the fairest rose.
Tommy Randell Dec 2014
To loosen with my bare hands
the wide air between us
in explaining something of meaning
I almost feel
I am pulling flesh
from the living and moving moments
possible here.

It is somehow breaking
the natural order of things
to use words alone
of all viable means
in setting out the wind-waves and rivulets
of ideas internally flowing -
but I must try and get something out for once.

I circle in bad phrases
prickling with the itchiness of sharing,
I send out a few vague words
horrified and perplexed
at their translation now they are *****
knowing you too listen
and they are at last unalterable.

Deep in the brain, far back
this is my bad time
but I know where the roots go
down into me
and from the storm’s heart
perpetual agitation pumps hand in hand
with calm acceptance.
The self *****, alternately
to fan and to freeze
whatever doubts or unease are burning.
Talk travels the spaces between us
through the clear air
in the kind of silence
surviving bones may know swinging in a wind.

But I know stillness can become alive
when living mouths bring their hearts to bear -
ears can well hear
what the breath has to say,
as the eye sees
the body’s smallest noises -
face to face we are a field of listening.

The warm comes without sound.
This is only the edge of a becoming.
We are not trapped in the lips -
already we lean inward
to know of each other and to give
not words for the wind
but a dance at ease with all that flows.
Ivo Yankulovski May 2014
A word is there for your expression.
Is it time for your confession?

The night is dark and full of horrors.
I wear my mark to seek my honors.

No one sees the divine in me.
All is dead and waits for me.

Gods regret about the light.
I will vanish from your sight.

A Dream exalts upwards this world.
The others lead us mostly swirled.

True words wind off my mind.
I will never leave you blind.

A code is there for me to find.
Deeply hidden and always undefined.

Everything appears one of its behind.
But shatters your illusions once combined.

Stand up and break this truth in parts.
Create a world made of arts.

No one brings the pain aside.
You better take it as your bride.

There is no second paradise.
Drop your eyes and do this sacrifice.
there's a fisherman down by the sea
sitting on the wharf
watching the sun sink into the western sky
a frown frames his house
he looks out the window
at his pole, gear
and especially that of his net
emptiness
metaphors that weigh on him
uprooting his garden
a garden of no delight
one lonely row of forget me not
and regret
all wilting
his foundation
lost
never found or realized
he pauses
runs his hand over his pole
like a belt without any notches
his grip slipping into the abyss
as the last of the orange
sinks
bleeds also
at where the sea  meets the sky
where his day slowly turns to night
somewhere out there he sees his image
in nature's mirror
at his crossroads
for deeply
and some may say shallowly
he looks onto the sea one last time
and he means what he says
and throws his fishing gear in
tears welling in his eye
as he watches his teddybear sink
lips gurgling
seemingly asking why
... why
he answers back
there were no fish or bites
in his lonely sea
or wind at his back
... there
his window opens wider
the sea not singing or dancing
he sees the ambient light
correlations
... here

Logan Robertson

7/06/2018
If one reads between the lines the poem reads like a eulogy with a
harbinger to come.
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