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eleanor prince Sep 2018
(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)
Samantha Nguyen Aug 2018
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.
Juhlhaus Jan 23
A sidewalk canvas
Half done slush
An oil slick
Twice frozen ice
And boots that slip
A train just missed
The red eyes glare
Rain that floats
In sour air
Brutalized concrete
Bleeding rust
Filthy floors
And alley walls
Spent cigarettes
In every nook
Steel that shrieks
In cold protest
Blue lights
And a defiant poet
On every corner
An inventory of materials.
Willow Oct 2018
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
We shall make
A recourse to the gun,
If for election we run
Devoid of ideas,
Sell which we can,
We could hardly win
The heart of a single fan.

Also labelled
"Corrupts,atavists
And narrow nationalists"
They can
Put on us a ban
So that sinks on us
The Sun.

Climbing into
A political ivory tower
Is not for us,
Let us beat
The drum of war
To garner
And to monger to power.
.
recalcitrant, retrogressive, detractors,mongers,war
Richard Barnes Jul 2018
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.
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.
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.
English Jam May 2018
Drink to the woman who cared for others
Drink to the man who let her die in the gutter
Drink to those who think they have eternal youth
Drink to those who learn but don’t recognise truth
Drink to those who descend to the feet of Malkuth
Drink to those whose only wish is to hang from the roof
Drink to the liars whose only lie was that they were fine
Drink to the colours that dared to be vibrant and different from mine
Drink to the comedian whose pain is well nourished
Drink to the lover whose bruises have all flourished
Drink to the girl who doesn’t know what to believe
Drink to the guy who always feels like he has to leave
Drink to those who killed themselves to start anew
Drink to the crowd of many that thinks it’s a crowd of few
Drink to those who stand for themselves without any legs
Drink to the rich man who still stops and begs
Drink to those who worship God through death
Drink to those who don’t know they’re taking their final breath
Drink to the children who found guns way too early
Drink to the boy who was told he’s too girly
Drink to the saviour who taught peace and love
Drink to those who lived hatred to get above
Drink to the shadows who stayed carefully hidden
Drink to the people of whom the shadows were forbidden
Drink to the victims who were put into shame
Drink to the celebrities who forgot their own name
Drink to the singer who doesn’t know what the words mean
Drink to the speaker who tells stories of things he hasn’t seen
Drink to the majesties whose requests are over the top
Drink to the awkward kids who don’t know when to stop
Drink to the daydreamers lost in a drowse
Drink to the shimmering girl in a torn blouse
Drink to the society that discriminates anyone in its excess
Drink to the forgotten parade of losers, addicts and rejects
Drink to whoever sees love in the dark chapters of our books
Drink to those who are and aren’t obsessed with their looks
Drink to the new generation that abandoned its old pastiche
Drink to all who have and haven’t found their niche
Drink to the beach who had fresh scars each day
And drink to the ocean that washed the scars away

Drink, drink, drink, upon high
Raise your glass, raise your glass high

Cheers.
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2016
He sat by a furnace of seven-fold heat,
As He watched by the precious ore.
And closer He bent with a searching gaze,
As He heated it more and more.

He knew He had ore that could stand the test
And He wanted the finest gold,
To mold as a crown, for the king to wear,
Set with gems of price untold.

So He laid our gold in the burning fire,
Tho’ we fain would say Him "nay."
And watched the dross that we had not seen
As it melted and passed away.

And the gold grew brighter and yet more bright,
But our eyes were dim with tears,
We saw but the fire, not the Master’s hand,
And questioned with anxious fears.

Yet our gold shone out with a richer glow
As it mirrored a form above,
That bent o’er the fire, though unseen by us
With a look of ineffable love.

Can we think it pleases His loving heart
To cause us a moment's pain?
Ah, no! But He sees through the present cross
The bliss of eternal gain.

So He waited there with a watchful eye,
With a love that is strong and sure.
And His gold did not suffer a bit more heat
Than was needed to make it pure.

~ A.F. Ingler
~~~
Sibyl Feb 2016
Breathe in slow
enough to hear
his voice - ichor
dripping from beneath

his lips sewn
with incessant thoughts
of the looming
shadows that he sees

at night, with heavy

gasps
drawn deep within
his lungs, he dreams
he's awake
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.
AditiBoo Aug 2018
She hates what she sees
So she tries so hard to please
You see,  to be seen is not enough
To her, even a smile is a rebuff...

So she lights up a room
Leaves no space to gloom
Becomes your Bob and your Godmother
Always available when you need her

A very good friend and fiend
Always someone you can hold in esteem
But then...there is a dark side you are yet to discover
A black stain in a soul full of colour

She hates what she sees and yearns to be seen
So she shows herself on every wretched scene
She bares all that she is hoping for anything but hate
She gave away too much and now it’s too late

They told her she was worth so much more
They told her “you need to love yourself more”
But you cannot adore what you abhor
You cannot praise what you deplore

And time makes the stain grow darker
It seeps further, spreads deeper
Her light shines brighter
And her smile grows wider

They all say 'what a great catch' she is
As she tries even harder to please
Small favours become regretful errors
Small tremors paralyse all of her members

So she sits, withering in self-loathe
Stunted in her emotional growth
Trapped in a dark corner of her soul
Waiting for someone to hear her call
Danneli Aug 2018
"Come hear!" they cry thru the shadowed veil
"Don't you hear the blackbirds song?
Do not weep for the grievings of her heart
For it is you that is dead and gone..."

"It's me indeed!" cried the poor wand'rer
"For behold I meet death at last
My heart beats fast like the fallen bird's wings
Filled with sorrows for my lonesome past..."

"No, No!" cried the blacksmith's wife in vain
"Your heart should not grieve for your colorful days!
I n're leave home and I work till I bleed
I am caged and shall die a *****..."

"Your tunes are absurd to my disciplined ear,"
The businessman spat in the stranger's path
"You can scarce imagine my crimes toward man
I am ****** to **** for my horrid acts..."

"My songs have begun to fade out of key!
My spirit has died," the performer mourned
"I sing alone with another's words
The crowd sees beauty, but it's pain they scorn..."

Now do you hear it? My song that I sing?
Now that you've reveled on a darkness within
Sing no longer for me the tune that I give
For the caged bird that I am, I see all of your sins.
I tried a new style. Sorry, I can't explain it or make it more complicated than it is.
Logan Robertson Jul 2018
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.
Robert Cayne Jul 2017
Reminiscent of a dream:
    (The mirror, the ghostly figure,
    The long, loving grass.)

    The infinity mirror, for all its fury
    To Smooth over the untamed roughess
    Of Humanity's core,
    Draws blood with shaving blades,
    And magnanimity in masquerades.

    And still the pallor of blush,
    And the discoloration of adoration,
    Are but servile to anticipation.
 
    The reflector of infinity
    The eery promise
    Reaching towards divinity
    Or a torturous, blind ****-bent path

    The blind mirror promises
    Infinity, duality
    The shattered, puerile ghost caught between
    The Ubiquitous, sterile host of magisterial illusion

    The fragmented stone beneath him
    Like a altar on a monestary
    Grounding him to the magestic illusion
    Of groundless deceit, Of Boston's conceit

    Reverse that curse! Oh arrow-bent skies
    Of intrepid, oblique, malleable time
    That bends about paths through human hearts
    To human marrows, to decay, to remorse

    The skin, like a cage like a gibbet upholding the body
    Knows not the force of infinity's grasp
    Until it overtakes him in a moment of intrepid deceit.

    In these hallowed halls ghostly particles dance,
    Ghostly bodies collide and recombine into once visible
    Charades of macabre cavemen.

    Once, always visible in the mirror, unknowable is the heart.
    In this illusory rebirth, is the ghost in the machine,
    In deed through imprints the duality of despair's duplicity
    Onto a parched heart's never-fingerprint

    Identity is unknown to the mirror (clearly)
    Vanity is unknown to the self
    How transparent the mirror makes
    Blood-meat of a man!

    Gushing listlessly, he retraces the mirror's arrows
    Onto the lines on the page.
    He retraces the chalk on the lines.
    He becomes just the vane words on the page.

    Words, and the mirror of language
    The potency lost to fragmented duplication.
    The mosaic is born,
    Unseen, to vague, blurred visions of a fragmented nation.

    But language outcasts him,
    Him tangled deeply within its moat,
    Its dubbed deeply embedded within him,
    Ah, again the duality!


    His mirror-image, the words
    Against the page, untold sillhoutes
    Of a dark, flickering, menacing display
    Of brash omens.

    The words, his craft of silence's
    Burrow, of despair's unlaundry,
    Of an empty room without
    Any charge at all.

    The words, against the words.
    But that he sees not.
    The words against the self.
    He sees not.

    Blinded by narcissism, by that mirror.
In this poem the mirror is personified as an artist. As a reader, the quest is to evaluate him/her/it (the mirror) and discover your relationship with her.
He is there but nobody sees him
He speaks but no one can hear
He lives his life in confinement
And no one ever comes near.
To watch him He looks rather lonely
He is lost that is perfectly clear.
Once a child in the arms of his mother
And his father would always be near.
But parants don't last forever
And soon they are no longer here
Now there  is nobody out there
To chase away all of his fears.
He walks to his flat he has no one
Loneliness his only friend
Is this what he really lives for
With nothing to show at the end.
Let's start from the very beginning
It happens in this day and age
Take note of this lonely stranger
Invisible in so many ways.
Watched a documentary a couple of years ago about the amount
Of people who live on their own it was amassing. Although this poem
Is a true case of a man who really was let down by the people around
Him saddly he was like being invisible  in the eyes of the world.
He just didn't fit in with others .
ryn Mar 2015
.
     Seems much smaller than I had imagined.
     It only stretches as far as my eyes could
     see.
     It reeks of the past, with no hints of the
     future.
     The present is here, the present is me.

My world tonight...
     Sees me nestled,
     watching silent but with mind
     dishevelled...
     Unnoticed on this kerb...
     Unnamed and unlabelled.

My world tonight...
     Is filled with familiar strangers,
     ushering their lives along.
     I know their faces but not their names.
     I'd call this home but I don't belong.

My world tonight...
     Is spinning regardless...
     It stays on track.
     Never waits for me.
     Never looks back.

My world tonight...
     Has no intention to soothe my thoughts.
     It is baring its bite...
     It's leaving me far behind...
     But I'll catch up at the break of light.



                                        *As I always do...
King Panda Mar 2016
It’s no fun to cry when someone is looking at you
It’s only fun to cry when you’re alone
*****
under covers
your pillow saturated in salt
and sometimes that’s not even fun
and you wonder
why even bother
when God sees everything you do
every tear you shed
that you are always being watched
that you can never cry without someone looking at you
and you raise your fist into the muggy darkness and declare
*******
God
Joseph Miller Dec 2017
One glorious moment
God said to me
"I am here"

Tears of joy
washed away my fear
as he lifted the veil
revealed his face
radiating the essence
of all things
a cosmic oneness
filled with love
beyond imagining
the mystic sees
the infinite connection
of the ultimate power

But I a mortal being
consumed by form
it seems
God withdrew
left me standing there
in a world separate
where matter divides
and boundaries form
to close the mind
and hide the truth

Yet I am blessed
to seek the light
and find myself
witness to God
true story
Cné Nov 2018
She sees him
from afar and sighs.
He’s easy on the eyes,
this man by the sea,
as he contemplates,
who he is and who
he wants to be.
She wants to wave,
as she raises a hand,
like how the ocean
greets the land,
but then wonders if
she should turn
and walk away,
and leave him
to his day.
Been waiting..... I thought there would be more forthcoming but I guess not.
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