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nnylhsa Dec 2013
my tormentor
is also known to be
the one who holds me
the one who brightens my smile
faster than he can drive a mile
but with this he had
drawn me to the dark and the bad
making him what ruined me so
leading me to this point with nothing else to do
but hide all emotion and go with what is told
with this it was oh-so bold
that he was my tormentor
that dragged me to and fro
leading me to the dark
holding my hand
leading me deeper
and deeper
into pure nothingness

(a.b)
JR Rhine Jan 2017
I broke up with God
at our favorite eatery
in our favorite booth.

We settled into familiar creases
and asked for the usual.

My eyes lazily staring at fingers
stirring the straw around the ice cubes,
God cautiously spoke up:

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing.” (Thinking about the dormant phone
concealing behind the lock screen
the open Facebook tab
lingering over the relationship status section.)

They silently mused over the laconic reply,
til the waitress showed up with the food.

“Thank you!” God blurted with agonizing alacrity.

I received the sustenance lifelessly
and aimlessly poked at the burgers and fries.

The waitress eyed me with vague inquisition,
popping a bubble in the gum between
big teeth, refilled my water
and pirouetted hastily.

We ate in ostensible harmony,
the silence gripping like a chokehold,
the visible anxiety and subdued resolve
settling like a stifling blanket
over the child waking
from a nightmare—

Til we couldn’t breathe,
and I ripped back the covers
and looked into the eyes
of my tormentor.

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

God, taken aback by the curt statement,
dropped their burger with shaking hands,
silently begging with wetting eyes
a greater explanation.

So I elaborated:

“It’s not you, it’s me.

For your immaculate conception
was created by human hands,

your adages rendered obsolete
by human words,

your purpose and plan for us
distorted by human nature—

I cannot hate myself any longer.

I cannot pretend to know you at all.

Who my mother and father say you are
is not who my friends think you are,
nor my teachers, my pastor,
the president, Stephen Hawking,
Muhammed, the KKK, Buddha,
the Westboro Baptist Church,
Walt Whitman, Derek Zanetti,
******,
and Billy Graham.

I am told you care who I bring into bed (and when),
and what movies I watch,
and what music I listen to—

I have not heard what you say about
child soldiers, the use of mosquitos,
or the increased destruction of the earth
which you proudly proclaimed your creation,
or the poverty and disease and famine
which has ridden so many of your children—”

God interjected,
“But you’re chosen!”

I snorted,

“You say I’m chosen
to spend eternity with you—
why me?

Why’d you pick me among
thousands, millions, billions?

I’ve been told I’m ‘chosen’
since birth
by others like me—

those with fair complexion,
blue eyes,
blonde hair,
a firm overt ****** attraction towards women,
and a great big house
with immaculate white fences
delineating their Jericho.

I’ve already fabricated eternity
here among the other ‘chosen’
and there is a world of suffering
right outside the fence
and I see them
through the window of my bedroom
every day.

Am I chosen,
if I don’t vote Republican

Am I chosen
if I am Pro-Choice

Am I chosen
if I cohabitate with my girlfriend

Am I chosen
if I never have kids

Am I chosen
if I say ‘Happy Holidays’

Am I chosen
if I don’t want public prayer in schools

Am I chosen
if I don’t want a Christian nation

Am I chosen
if I don’t repost you on my wall
or retweet your adages?

I’m tired
being the ubermensch,
for it has not brought me
happiness
and I blame you.

I will not ignore
the cries of the suffering
believing it is I
who is destined to live
in bliss.

I will not buy
Joel Osteen’s autobiography(ies).

I will not tithe
you my money
for a megachurch
when another homeless shelter
closes down.

I will not tell a woman
what to do with her body,
or a man
that he is a man
if they say they are not.

I am neither Jew nor Gentile,
and I will stand with
my brothers and sisters
of Faith and Faithlessness,

Gay and Straight,
Black and White,

and apart from these extremes
free from absolutes
the ambiguous, amorphous
nature of Humankind
which I praise.

There is much pain and suffering
in this world,
potentially preventable,
but hardly can I believe
it’s part of your plan
to save
me.

I will not be saved
if we are not
all saved—

not one will burn
for my divinity.

The gates will be open to all—
and perhaps you believe that too,
but I’ve gotten you all wrong
and that cannot change,
as long as there is
mortality, and
corruption, and
power, and
lust, and
greed.”

God whined, growing bellicose,

“It is through me that you will find eternity,
I am the one true god!
I am the God of your fallen ancestors,
it is because you have fallen short
that you need me!”

I replied, growing in confidence,

“We have all fallen short,
yes,
but we are also magnificent.

We have evolved,
we have created,
we have adapted,
we have survived.

We have built empires,
and we have destroyed them.

We have cured diseases,
and we have created them.

We have done much in your name.
We’ve done good,
and we’ve done evil—

And unfortunately it’s all about
who you ask.

Your name is a burden on the oppressed
and a weapon of the oppressor.

You are abusive, God.

You tell me you are jealous.

You tell me apart from you I will suffer for an eternity.

I’m scared to die, yet want to die,
because of you.

You have made life a waiting room
that is now my purgatory. It is

Hell On Earth.

So you see,
it’s not you,
it’s me—
a mere mortal
who has tried to put a face
to eternity
and it has left me
empty.

And also,
it’s me,
for I have learned to love me,
as I have expelled your self-loathing imbibition,
and the deleterious zeal
I have proclaimed
through ceaseless
trepidation
and self-flagellation—

I have learned to love me
by realizing I am not inherently evil,
that my body is not evil,
that my mind is not evil,
and, ultimately, that
there is no good
and there is no evil.

My body is beautiful,
my mind is beautiful,
this world is beautiful,
and we are destroying it
waiting for you to claim
us.

I leave you
in hopes to see you
again one day,

and perhaps you will look
different than I have
perceived or imagined,

and in fact
I certainly hope so.”

Just then the waitress strolled back up
with a servile smile:
“Dessert?”

“No, thank you,”
I smiled politely.

And with that,
I paid the check,
and took a to-go box—

walked out into the evening rain
to my car,
put on a secular song
that meant something real to me
and drove off
into the night—

feeling for the first time
free
and alive.
The Terry Tree Aug 2014
Hidden grace, no light for revelation
To pass such limits is to become ******
Like the dragon or a serpent monster
Your myth has become fixed in minds on earth

All the forces that disturb you demand
Darkness is your indetermination
Blazed in trails of blackness you command
Symbols of evil and demonic birth

In the Underworld you plot and saunter
Grotesque in cloven hooves or horns you stand
You are our fear the tormentor at hand
Stealing our only hope for self-love worth

You disturb and weaken every nation
Eliminating those who will prosper

You have a tool box filled with shapes galore
A choir of demons at your disposal
You wear the face of animals to prove
That you exist but will not show your face

Temptation is your favorite proposal
As you create ****** carnage and gore
Attacking innocents world wide; global
It is your goal to blacken and erase

It is unclear when you will make a move
Your starless magic uncontrollable
Your angry heart is inconsolable
In every mouth you leave an awful taste

The only thing that satisfies is war
Beelzebub to slaughter good it behooves

Clipping spiritual wings of all beings
Entering into those at their weakest
Supposition of your essence is sly
What you are has no particular shape

You've made a pact to stand against Jesus
Disintegrating all Saints from seeing
Wicked ways are in all ways the cheapest
To ingress means whole-purity escapes

Human life is interwoven freely
Free will allows the mind to go deepest
When we take the path we take the steepest
Secreted in your invisible cape

To return is without guaranteeing
With mastery disposing us to die

I believe that beneath us is a rug
One that you delight in pulling away
Much like this rug our minds become feeble
And we begin to believe everything

Our moral and metaphysical ways
Begin to end as our shoulders will shrug
Entire atmospheres are grey for days
To open up our mouths yet not to sing

What we decide can often be lethal
A personal domain of hellbent maze
As we lose sight our lives become a daze
Of which no hope or light can often bring

Our deception is your favorite drug
When we feel at our worst you are gleeful

The seeker of hidden knowledge must keep
A balance like the Hermit's inner peace
Otherwise the journey will fall victim
To flowing currents of hateful power

Like a wolf in sheep's clothing you have fleece
To hold on to our light is to succeed
Pull back the reigns of life commanding "Cease!"
Do not fall from your enlightened tower

Satan is a trickster sent to sicken
Our ability to wager disease
To believe that he exists is to please
Negative energy to devour

The best part of me is only asleep
Isolation has become addicted

Prince of Darkness, Antichrist, King of Hell
Appearing to the blind slave of instinct
You have no sovereignty be gone from me
I confront thee I am ready and still

Lucifer, Angel of Darkness extinct
You do not know my spirit guides that well
Distraction is what makes you so succinct
I have no desire to go downhill

Your downward spiral was a slide to see
How you manipulate what others think
Mephistopheles, Archfiend of distinct
Measures to tear others down you conceal

I dispel, I kiss forever farewell
Rest quietly in harmony dreaming

A lullaby for you I have written
On my heart as ancient as Egyptians
The Vedas and Sumerian temples
Will embrace you even in rejection

Your actions are despised in omission
I believe your bitter self was bitten
Release your broken spirit condition
Open your eyes and arms to affection

We can all be as one in one vessel
There are good folks and there is suspicion
Prayer of my song, a hymn of permission
Release thy tortured ways to connection

Evil drifts up, Listen, Listen, Listen
As our bodies fill with light and tremble

Shhhhh.......

© tHE tERRY tREE
Poetic Form | Turco Bref Double
Jon Po Dom Feb 2017
The room goes dark
Its time to play
Bewildered look on
Her face
Glowing by the sheen
From candles lit
Let the games begin
A dark voice says

Sweat builds on her brow
Like a tear drop
No sadness here
She awaits in anticipation

Her body is tense
Ropes, whips and chains
Hanging on the walls
Will we be used today
Takes hold of the ropes
Ties her to four posts
Attached to a bed
Dressed in silk clothes
So soft where she lies

He covers her eyes
Field of view obstructed
Heightened senses
Like a cave underwater
No life expected

Her ears come to life
Tingling with slow breathes
From his
cold mouth
Frozen lips
Icy tongue
She gasps for air
Her body bare

First time playing
He isn't easy
On her
A big smile forms
No serenity
Pleasure is torture

She wants more
Craves deep within
No whips
No chains
Nothing more than
Hot and Cold hands
His Toy

Moving across her body
Up and Down
Exploring her map
Over the hills
Through the valleys
From chest to navel

Mouth to Mouth
She licks her lips
In slow motions
Like a fan
oscillating
He tastes so good
So much emotion
The smell of leather
In the air

Takes a deep breathe as
He rubs the ice
Down the Hills
Is it too hot?
Is it too cold?
Her brain can't function
What is this?
is it Pleasure?
Is it pain?

She wants to learn
His tender touch
Is it love?
Is it hate?
Is it passion?
Confused reaction

Please stop!
No, keep going
What to do?
What to say?
She says nothing
She has escaped
Into the confines of
Her mind distressed
Obsessed
She is fully obliged
To Him

Mouth to lips
Passion fruit
Cant move
She comes undone
Her body contorts
Hair stands
Like trees in the forest
Goosebumps

What has happened?
She'll never tell
Forever changed
Her body fell
Into his arms
Her Dark Tormentor

JM 10/4/16
A poetic story. Part 1 of a series. More to come.
kevin morris Jan 2014
This is a fictional account of the abuse suffered by a young boy. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.
Chapter 1

Lady Macbeth remarked “Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil”. All children have their terrors. The bogeyman who lurks in dark corners patiently waiting to harm the unwary child. The ghost who haunts the attic where, even on a bright sunny day the child fears to go alone or some unspeakable terror, a horror with no name which lies just below the surface of every day life. In my case the ghoul who cast an all pervasive shadow over my childhood was Colin, a man small in stature but, to a child a monster of epic proportions.
I have, on occasions tried to comprehend why my abuser acted as he did. As a boy I had no desire to understand Colin. I hated him with an all consuming loathing. He was the devil incarnate who, if it had been in my power to do so I would have destroyed with as little compunction as a man would show when exterminating a rat. As an adult the hatred remains although now tempered with a desire to understand why Colin abused a small, defenceless child, physically and mentally over a prolonged period.
Was Colin abused by one (or both) of his parents? And, if so does this help to explain (but in no way excuse) why he took such great delight in inflicting pain on me? I met both of Colin’s parents and stayed with them on several occasions. At no time during those visits was I subjected to any kind of abuse. This does not of course prove that Colin’s mother and father where not abusers. It demonstrates that they did not abuse me, no more, no less. However, looking back at my visits to their home and, in particular the fact that neither of Colin’s parents abused me, I am inclined to believe that he was not ill treated by either of them. So what turned Colin into the monster who took delight in twisting my arm so hard behind my back that I thought it would break? The answer is, I have no idea. What turned apparently normal Germans into mass murderers in ******’s *****? The answer is the same, I don’t know. As with the concentration camp guards who committed mass ****** I can speculate that some where subjected to abuse as children and that this led to them becoming psychopathic killers. However not all of those abused in childhood go on to commit abuse, while many in the SS experienced apparently happy childhoods untroubled by abuse. Colin may have been abused by someone other than his parents but even if this is the case this does not explain or justify why he became an abuser.

Chapter 2

I was born on 7 February 1971 in the north of England. Soon after my birth it became apparent that all was not right with Donald Myers. I cried far more than any normal child ought to. In addition I banged my head against hard surfaces on a frequent basis which, obviously gave rise to concern. My mum, as any good mother would took me to the hospital only to be told that there was nothing amiss. However a mother’s instinct told her that something was terribly wrong with her son. She refused to leave the hospital and demanded a second opinion. This was provided by a Polish doctor who, having examined me diagnosed a blood clot on the brain. My distraught family was informed that I required an urgent operation and even if the blood clot was successfully removed I was likely to be severely mentaly disabled. Fortunately the blood clot was removed and I am not mentally deficient. The clot did, however leave me with very poor vision (I am registered blind and use a guide dog as a mobility aid although I possess useful vision which assists with orientation).

Chapter 3

As a young boy I spent a great deal of time with my grandfather. This was due to my sister, Janet being ill and my mum not being able to look after 2 young children simultaneously.
I have fond memories of playing in what I called “the patch”, a piece of the garden which my grandfather allowed me to do with as I chose. I recall making mud pies and coming into the house caked in mud literally from head to toe.
Being blind I relied on my grandfather to read to me. Most weekends found us in a book shop. Whenever I walk into W H Smiths the scent of books brings back happy memories of time spent with my grandfather, me sitting on his knee as he read to me.
My grandfather was a dear, kind gentle man. Had he known how Colin was abusing me he would, I am sure have gone straight to the nearest police station to report him. However he never knew and, being a small child I never confided in him.
I am amazed when I hear people ask “why didn’t so and so report the abuse?” As a small child I was terrified of Colin. Had I told anyone I was sure that he would deny everything and the abuse would intensify. I was not aware of the existence of the National Society For The Prevention Of Cruelty To Children (NSPCC) and even had I known of their existence I would, as a frightened little boy have lacked the courage to pick up the phone and call. Colin would, no doubt have accused me of lying and in the 1970’s and 1980’s children where rarely believed when making alegations of abuse.

Chapter 4

I used to dread leaving the safety of my grandfather’s home to spend time with Colin and my mother. My heart would sink when Colin or my mum came to collect me from my grandfather’s. On one occasion I deliberately dropped the car keys behind the kitchen worktop in the forlorn hope this would prevent my mum taking me to stay with her and Colin. Oh vain hope, the keys where discovered and I found myself in the lair of the abuser.
Colin took care never to abuse me in the presence of others. He was, however adept at tormenting me when my mum or other people where nearby but couldn’t see what he was doing. One incident is indelibly etched on my memory. I was sitting on the sofa, in the living room. The room opened straight out into the street and I was seated close to the front door. My mum called to me from outside asking whether I wanted to accompany her to the supermarket. I replied “yes” but before I could leave to join her Colin, who was sitting on the same sofa twisted my arm behind my back and whispered that I should tell my mum that I had changed my mind. I continued to attempt to leave but Colin increased the pressure saying that if I didn’t inform my mum that I had changed my mind he would break my arm. Naturally I called to my mum that I no longer wished to go with her and she left without me.
Being outside my mum did not see the abuse taking place a mere few feet from where she was standing.
On another occasion, while Colin and I where sitting in the living room, he forced a chipped mug into my lip which drew blood. Again my mum was present in the kitchen, which was located next to the living room but did not observe the abuse. On entering the living room and noticing the scar a few minutes later she enquired what had caused it. At this point in time I don’t recollect whether Colin put the lie into my mouth or whether I concocted the story in order to avoid further abuse. In any case I informed my mum that I had cut myself with a chipped mug, a version of events she accepted.  
At times I thought that I was going to die. No small boy likes washing but I used to dread bathing due to Colin’s own unique method of assisting me to wash. This consisted of holding my head under the water so that my nose and mouth filled and I felt as though I was going to die. I would emerge, terrified coughing and spluttering.
Colin obviously derived tremendous pleasure from half suffocating me. On numerous occasions he would place a cushion or pillow over my face and hold it there until I felt that I was about to die. Years later when I attended counselling with the mental health charity Mind, the counsellor asked me why I thought that Colin had not killed me? I replied that he probably derived more pleasure from having a living child to torment than he would have gained had he murdered me. Also, had he murdered me the prospect of detection and Colin spending a long period in prison would, I said have acted as a disincentive to  him taking my life. .  
Colin was a sadist. In adition to systematically abusing me he also abused my mum. I remember him hitting her on a regular basis and on at least one occasion pushing her down the stairs. He was (and is) a ******* of the first order.
Colin didn’t confine his cruelty to people. I recall him flinging the family cat at me. The poor animal stuck out it’s claws to gain purchase with the result that it scratched my face badly. Like all bullies Colin was, at bottom a coward. I never once saw him abuse the family dog. I am sure that this was not out of any affection for the animal, rather it stemmed from the fear that had he done so the dog would, quite naturally have bitten it’s tormentor in self defence. Oh how I wished that the dog had sunk his teeth into Colin.          

Chapter 5

We all have nightmares. As a young boy one of my recurring bad dreams concerned being chased by a hoover. To anyone unfamiliar with the abuse inflicted on me the relating of my dream will, no doubt result in mirth. However my nightmare was no laughing matter as to me the vacuum cleaner was a thing of terror. We owned an upright hoover which Colin would, periodically place on my head while the motor was running. I well recall the terror as the wheels of the machine ran across my head. Colin was nothing if not inventive as in addition to putting a working vacuum cleaner on my head he also made me hold the machine above my head. My arms would ache terribly but I dare not put the hoover down until ordered to do so by Colin. For many years following the ending of the abuse “the chasing hoover dream”, as I refered to it stubbornly refused to go away. While the nightmare no longer plagues my sleeping brain, whenever I use a vacuum cleaner the recollection of a terrified little child being tortured by a hoover comes back to me.
In another of my childhood nightmares I would enter the spare bedroom only to be grabbed by a clicking monster which wrapped it’s hands around my neck attempting to strangle me.
Colin choked me on numerous occasions. One incident remains vividly imprinted on my memory. It was evening and my mum, sister, Colin and I sat in the living room. All of the family accept for me where watching television. I was listening to a talking book about a footballer which contained many amusing stories. I laughed uproariously throughout much of the book. Later on that evening, following the departure of my mum and sister to bed Colin choked me telling me never to laugh like that again as I had “disturbed” people. As I recall Colin’s strangling of me the old terrors reassert themselves. At the time I felt that I had, perhaps done something wrong. However the logical part of my brain told me that I had done nothing whatever to justify Colin’s barbaric treatment of me. He ought to have gone to prison for that incident alone. He was (and remains) the personification of evil to me. To this day I can, on occasions feel self conscious about giving in to the natural desire to laugh at a great joke when in the company of friends. I can (and do) let myself go and laugh uproariously but Colin remains in the background, like Banquo’s ghost putting a dampener on the feast.

Chapter 6

Colin possessed considerable charm which is, perhaps how he came to entrap my mum into marrying him. I remember sitting around the dinner table with guests present and Colin holding forth on Charles Darwin amongst other topics. Although not university educated Colin was by no means unintelligent and could, if one was unfamiliar with his propensity to abuse, appear to be charm itself, a man whom it would be a pleasure to have over for dinner.      

Colin possessed the capacity to make people laugh which he used to devastating effect when making barbed comments at the expense of my mum. I hated him for his comments but laughed none the less which is proof of the idea that hostages frequently try to please their captors by forming some kind of relationship with them. I can not at this juncture in my life recall in detail how, precisely Colin undermined the confidence of my mum, I suspect that this inability on my part stems from the fact that I was, quite naturally concerned with my own suffering and the abuse perpetrated on my mum was of secondary concern. My own pain preoccupied me. I had little time for that of others.

Chapter 7

My counsellor and my dear friend, Barry have raised the issue as to whether my mum was aware of the abuse to which Colin was subjecting me. I have thought about this question long and hard and I still can not provide a categoric answer. I am sure that my mum never actually observed Colin in the act of abusing me. She was, as explained in the forgoing chapters, never in the same room when the abuse took place. The fact that her son showed a profound disinclination to be alone with Colin should though have caused alarm bells to start ringing. Colin was clever. The only time I can recollect when he caused me to bare a physical manifestation of abuse was the incident of the chipped cup related earlier. On all other occasions the marks where deep psychological wounds not visible to the casual observer.
I have tried discussing the abuse with my mum. Her reaction has osilated between stating that the abuse occurred a long time ago and that I ought to forgive and forget, to questioning whether it did, in fact take place. My gut feeling is that my mum does not doubt my veracity. The anger she manifested on discovering that I had informed my wife of the abuse perpetrated by Colin demonstrates that she does not doubt me.
Shortly prior to my wife and I separating we went to stay with my mum and sister. One morning my mum, my daughter and I went for a walk during the course of which my mum received a call from my sister. Janet said that my wife, Louise had told her that I had informed Louise of the abuse to which I had been subjected to by Colin. My mum rounded on me asking “why the hell I had told Louise about the abuse”. There ensued a blazing argument during which my mum hit me. On returning home the argument continued with Janet stating that I should talk to Colin about the situation. The fact that Janet did not defend Colin and state that he couldn’t, possibly have abused me indicates that she was, to some extent aware of the abuse.
I love my mum deeply and have no doubt that she loves me. Yet whenever we are together the elephant in the room (Colin) stands between us, seen by both but mentioned by neither. In my case I fear the eruption of a blazing argument. I have always shyed away from arguments which is, I suspect down to me having grown up in a family in which vilence and arguments where commonplace. As a small boy I developed strategies for minimising the likelyhood of being abused. My main strategy was to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. I became a master at sitting quietly, not speaking unless I was spoken to and doing everything in my power not to antagonise Colin. While I don’t fear being physically abused by my mum I shrink in terror at the prospect of a verbal tyraid eminating from her.
In my mum’s case she does, I believe feel guilty due to her not having protected her son from Colin. The fact that she refuses to discuss the abuse to which I was subjected shows her inability to acknowledge to me her own sense of culpability at her failure to prevent Colin’s behaviour. On at least one occasion my mum has told me that the abuse could not have taken place as, if it had she would have been aware of it. This is contradicted by her statement (refered to earlier) that it was a long time ago and I ought to “forgive and forget”. Both statements can not be correct and in her heart of hearts my mum knows that I am telling the truth, she lacks the courage to admit her own failings and apologise to me.      

Chapter 8

At this distance in time I can not pinpoint the precise point at which the physical abuse stopped. At some indeterminate point (I think during my early teens) I began to challenge Colin’s behaviour. I remember wishing to join a social club and Colin informing me that I could not do so. Full of fear and trepidation I said that I would join to
Sentimental person, stars in your eyes and longing in your heart.
Looking everywhere but within, broken. Sentimental person, lost and stolen.

Leaning on a falling shoulder, drowning in another man's tears. Everybody running,  running from you.

Always knew you were pretty, but never truly understood your beauty; your worth tossed aside like an old rug or blanket.

Never stepping back, never taking a breath, your worn out body on overdrive. Spending your days in a psychological prison, a suicidal mind; a deadly master.

Walking with armored shadows by your sides, defending you from adulation and affection. Much like a wealthy man in an infamous alley, the territory of an infamous criminal.

A daily shedding of tears. The hot waxy tears of a candle rolling down your charred cheek. You continue to burn alone, ever surrounded by darkness.

Always reaching out for others, until your arm is ripped off, now you're limbless; disabled, stuck in the mud.

A waste of space, according to your unjustified terms, a lonely species that serves no purpose.

Fearing yourself, hiding yourself and disregarding yourself. Labeling yourself as a burden to others.

Ghostly smiles and ill-suited facades, eyebrows dragging themselves towards the earth's centre.

A body-builder's weight on your soft-jointed feet, the mass of your lonely misery strapped to your fickle ridge.

Being used; you in exchange for your acceptance. Clinging to past love because your present has none.

Enduring the pain of stationary motion,    going nowhere fast, constantly crashing into tragedies, repeatedly ramming into heartbreak.

Walking with cracked and bleeding soles, like an American Slave, whip marks on your back, a result of self-induced punishment.

Every wake is unwanted, everyday painful. Living for you, is like sea salt on a new born wound, only it never seems to heal.

Your body taken over by plaguing parasites, under your own toxic control. Forced to walk to the beat of a tormentor's drum, your tormentor, you.

Your tongue removed, unable to express yourself. Even in the tongue's presence, pain forces you to keep your mouth shut.

Nearing the Precipice, afraid of jumping, but desperate to be hauled off. Anxious to fall into the river down below, the River of The Dead, where, in your hopes, life is happier.

Your wrists and chest like sliced beef, every tear drop accompanied by the unwilling swipe of your razor blade. The redness of your being splashed onto the floor, then wiped away before anyone notices.

Hiding in a thorn bush from your predetermined destiny, each day comes and thorns dig deeper into your blue skin. Thick needles that you've become physically immune to, thick needles that still emotionally hurt.

Sharks further below circle around your tasteless body, patiently waiting to change you, rearrange your features, devour you for their own satisfaction.

Plebeian people disguised as friends, they show passing interest in your melancholy,  your sadness is what they will soon forget.

Wandering and stumbling in a plain white plane. No colour, no sound, no mercy, no gain. Trapped in Dysphoria. Trapped in a worm hole, eternally alone.

Forever falling into a bottomless pit, a hole reserved for the undeserving. But unlike other times, the rope let go of you. The rope that you clung tightly to, the rope that gave up on you.

One tone played on your broken piano, dysfunctional instrument. Your second chance stolen from you, your body deemed as junkyard worthy and thrown into the jaws of a junkyard dog.

Your mirror image distorted, visions clouded, unrecognizable is your face and your pupils, a vacant shell where your soul once hid.

Relying on heavy drugs after heavy drinking becomes ineffective. Heavy feet, a heavy heart, heavy burdens, heavy sadness.

Given a useless name by those who never knew you, forced to go by it, forced to go by them.

Your sweet pink lips hiding, behind them, bitter secrets. Secrets that you've become too ashamed to discuss even with yourself in the darkest night.

Cut short by the knees, not given a chance to run like the others. You've no choice but to let the storm cloud rest on your soft-haired skull. And when the cloud releases its rain, the drops are sharp like daggers. They shock and stab and hurt like the truth.

Your teeth white and pure, are the prison bars that trap you inside you, your smile is now your limited daylight break, a breath of barely fresh air before returning to your forcible detention.

Sentimental person, wallowing in your pitiful emotion, an undesired sensation that seems to follow you physically.

Emotional person, more valuable than you think; more exceptional than you Know.
Gerry Aldridge Sep 2016
Does the sun rise and scorn
All the dreams I think I saw?
Or does it care?

Does it want to help me bear
The loss of something I never had,
But through rose-coloured spectacles
I clearly saw?

Does it shine, or smirk
When it sees me pleading with the night
Not to go away, and begging all my dreams
To come with me into the day?


Are you light, or dark Sun?
Are you my tormentor,
Or my friend?
(Gerry Aldridge 2016)
Pain cracks my soul,
As you make me smile for the 129th time today.

How can you be so cruel?
But then again,
You don’t know you do.

This is torture in the extreme;
My love for you goes in secret;
For the fear I so disgustingly deny,
The rejection of your perfect love.

Your mere appearance makes me so full of joy I twitch,
And I feel like killing those who call you a *****.
How odd is this?
To love my tormentor in secret,
Yet she knows she can cause my utmost excessive bliss.

To make a lousy comparison,
I guess you could say
That I am Romeo without a Juliet,
And you - forever my Roseline.
Originally written October 2007
kevin morris Jan 2014
Susie gazed out at the atlantic. Great waves crashed against the cliffs . A gust of wind caught the girl almost knocking her off her feet. She seemed not to notice, her eyes remained fixed on the wild sea. Unbidden the words came to her
“Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble,
    Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink,
Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble
     The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink,
Here now in his triumph where all things falter,
     Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread,
As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,
                      Death lies dead.”
Susie’s salty tears mingled with the sea water which the ever increasing wind blew into her eyes.
“I’m not crying, it’s the sea water making my eyes sting” So what if I am crying? All this will pass and go. Long after I am dead this will remain, the uncaring ocean buffeting the cliffs as it has for millennia. Eventually the cliffs and the surrounding habitations will be claimed by the sea. Out of the sea life came and to the ocean humanity will return.
But I’m 20, I don’t want to die”.
All flesh is dust a mocking voice intoned. Susie whirled around. There was no one save for the gulls which wheeled and screeched overhead.
“Yes I will die but please god not yet. I have my whole life to look forward to” Susie said burying her face in her hands.  
“Stupid girl” the voice, like some  insidious demon crept into her brain.
“Shut up, shut up” the girl wept sticking her fingers into her ears attempting to silence the tormentor.
“Stupid slapper. Silly *****” the voice said undaunted by Susie’s attempts to silence it.
Doing her best to ignore whatever devil was taunting her Susie reached into her coat pocket. She felt the plain brown official envelope.
“I can’t, I won’t open it. I’ll throw it away. Better not to know”.
“Ignorance is bliss, little miss a coward is” the voice sneered.
“*******, *******” Susie screamed. Her words where lost in the howling of the wind and the crashing of the waves. Susie became aware of the crumpled envelope in her hands. In her agitation she had ******* it into a ball. How easy it would be to rid herself of the thing. One flick of her wrist and the letter would be lost forever in the depths of the Atlantic.
“Coward, coward” the voice taunted.
With a supreme effort Susie unscrewed the envelope and with trembling hands opened it. Reluctantly the girl extracted a crumpled letter.
“I can’t read it, I can’t” Susie wept. “Why did I do it? God let it be good news. Please, oh Christ I can’t bare it”.

Susie’s mind went back 4 months. She was drunk. She had never been so drunk in her entire life. The thump, thump of the music transported the girl into a world where only she and the beat, beat of the bass existed. She danced wildly letting herself be taken by the music to another realm.
Susie didn’t remember him arriving. One moment she was dancing alone, the next Susie was spinning around in the arms of a total stranger. Later that evening Susie recalled having *** in a cubicle in the gents toilets. Susie thought that she had consented but she had been so drunk she wasn’t sure.
“Christ, no ******. How could I have been so ****** stupid. I went to a good school, got all the right exams and I’m now at uni. I should have known better”.
Susie had gon to the hospital on the following day and had been tested for sexually transmitted diseases.
“You have ****** but that can easily be dealt with by antibiotics” the nurse had said.
Susie breathed a sigh of relief.
“You will, however need to come back in 3 months time for a *** test”.
“Can’t I have that today?”
“The *** virus can take upto 3 months to manifest itself so any test conducted today would be extremely unlikely to show whether you are, or are not carrying the virus”.
Susie had thrown herself into her studies for the next 3 months. When not studying she partied hard. Alcohol helped her to forget for some of the time but, in the early hours of the morning she would wake up sweating.
“What if I am infected? Christ only knows how many other girls that bloke slept with before we had ***”.
Eventually the 3 months passed and Susie returned to the hospital for her *** test.
“You can call in for your results in a few days time or, if you prefer just telephone the number on your card quoting your clinic number” the nurse said handing Susie a small slip of paper.
Susie had meant to call. She really had. However there always seemed to be something preventing her from making that call. There had been her friend’s wedding, her mum’s birthday and so, so many other things.
“Don’t make excuses. Of course you could have found a few minutes to make such an important telephone call” the insidious voice whispered in her ear.
“Yes, OK, I could. now ******* back to whatever rock you crawled out from under” Susie shouted.
Slowly Susie raised the paper to her face.
“Dear Miss Armstrong,
I refer to your visit of 4 July and the test conducted on that date. We have, unsuccessfully attempted to contact you on several occasions. Having been unable to do so I am writing to inform you of the result of your test for ***. I am pleased to advise that the test is negative (I.E. you are not *** positive).
Should you have any queries regarding this letter please call the number above and quote your clinic number to the health adviser.

Yours Sincerely “.
Susie wondered idly why doctors signatures almost always resembled squashed spiders. For the first time in many hours she smiled.
“Thank you god. Thank you”.
The gulls screeched overhead, the icey wind buffeted the girl and the great waves continued to crash against the crumbling cliffs. Susie no longer cared. She embraced the storm for it represented nature of which she was an integral part. It felt good to be alive. Susie took deep breaths.  The touch of the wind on her face  was wonderful. She smiled as her long black hair blew wildly in the sea breeze.  
“If you exist god, thank you, thank you” Susie said.
Em MacKenzie Sep 2018
Bear with me, I need to gather up the nerve,
to completely shower you with the love that you deserve.
You're thinking how to best throw the ball into a curve,
and I'm sinking, drowning in the words I still reserve.

We're sailing through the air
like rose petals from your hair,
lining the path to a room we can not enter.
We're beautifully torn
but the petals lack the thorn,
but still they ***** me and I bleed;
beauty claims the role of my tormentor.

Live with me, I'm not sure I can do it on my own,
keep me breathing, if you got an extra lung to loan.
I've been seeing stars and speckles in this twilight zone,
this struggle's repeating, look at how damaged I am,
and how quick I've grown.

We're sailing through the air
like rose petals ripped apart bare,
leading us to a door we could never open.
Our connection was born
but the petals lack the thorn,
the ****** and cuts come from all left unspoken.

The bouquet of your skin has dissolved
and the stems stretch further than we admit.
If nothing is started, it can't be resolved,
and I'm holding baby's breath; my stomach a deep pit.

I'm trying to solve a puzzle of invisibility
but my hands are broken and I lack the ability,
to decipher if the hues of grass in the pieces change shade,
if there's a side that's greener or just shadows cast on each blade.

We're sailing through the air
like rose petals without a care,
leading us into a trap we can't escape.
I tried my best to warn
that the petals still had a thorn,
it just seems now that it's a different shape.
Perplexed and troubled at his bad success
The Tempter stood, nor had what to reply,
Discovered in his fraud, thrown from his hope
So oft, and the persuasive rhetoric
That sleeked his tongue, and won so much on Eve,
So little here, nay lost.  But Eve was Eve;
This far his over-match, who, self-deceived
And rash, beforehand had no better weighed
The strength he was to cope with, or his own.
But—as a man who had been matchless held
In cunning, over-reached where least he thought,
To salve his credit, and for very spite,
Still will be tempting him who foils him still,
And never cease, though to his shame the more;
Or as a swarm of flies in vintage-time,
About the wine-press where sweet must is poured,
Beat off, returns as oft with humming sound;
Or surging waves against a solid rock,
Though all to shivers dashed, the assault renew,
(Vain battery!) and in froth or bubbles end—
So Satan, whom repulse upon repulse
Met ever, and to shameful silence brought,
Yet gives not o’er, though desperate of success,
And his vain importunity pursues.
He brought our Saviour to the western side
Of that high mountain, whence he might behold
Another plain, long, but in breadth not wide,
Washed by the southern sea, and on the north
To equal length backed with a ridge of hills
That screened the fruits of the earth and seats of men
From cold Septentrion blasts; thence in the midst
Divided by a river, off whose banks
On each side an Imperial City stood,
With towers and temples proudly elevate
On seven small hills, with palaces adorned,
Porches and theatres, baths, aqueducts,
Statues and trophies, and triumphal arcs,
Gardens and groves, presented to his eyes
Above the highth of mountains interposed—
By what strange parallax, or optic skill
Of vision, multiplied through air, or glass
Of telescope, were curious to enquire.
And now the Tempter thus his silence broke:—
  “The city which thou seest no other deem
Than great and glorious Rome, Queen of the Earth
So far renowned, and with the spoils enriched
Of nations.  There the Capitol thou seest,
Above the rest lifting his stately head
On the Tarpeian rock, her citadel
Impregnable; and there Mount Palatine,
The imperial palace, compass huge, and high
The structure, skill of noblest architects,
With gilded battlements, conspicuous far,
Turrets, and terraces, and glittering spires.
Many a fair edifice besides, more like
Houses of gods—so well I have disposed
My aerie microscope—thou may’st behold,
Outside and inside both, pillars and roofs
Carved work, the hand of famed artificers
In cedar, marble, ivory, or gold.
Thence to the gates cast round thine eye, and see
What conflux issuing forth, or entering in:
Praetors, proconsuls to their provinces
Hasting, or on return, in robes of state;
Lictors and rods, the ensigns of their power;
Legions and cohorts, turms of horse and wings;
Or embassies from regions far remote,
In various habits, on the Appian road,
Or on the AEmilian—some from farthest south,
Syene, and where the shadow both way falls,
Meroe, Nilotic isle, and, more to west,
The realm of Bocchus to the Blackmoor sea;
From the Asian kings (and Parthian among these),
From India and the Golden Chersoness,
And utmost Indian isle Taprobane,
Dusk faces with white silken turbants wreathed;
From Gallia, Gades, and the British west;
Germans, and Scythians, and Sarmatians north
Beyond Danubius to the Tauric pool.
All nations now to Rome obedience pay—
To Rome’s great Emperor, whose wide domain,
In ample territory, wealth and power,
Civility of manners, arts and arms,
And long renown, thou justly may’st prefer
Before the Parthian.  These two thrones except,
The rest are barbarous, and scarce worth the sight,
Shared among petty kings too far removed;
These having shewn thee, I have shewn thee all
The kingdoms of the world, and all their glory.
This Emperor hath no son, and now is old,
Old and lascivious, and from Rome retired
To Capreae, an island small but strong
On the Campanian shore, with purpose there
His horrid lusts in private to enjoy;
Committing to a wicked favourite
All public cares, and yet of him suspicious;
Hated of all, and hating.  With what ease,
Endued with regal virtues as thou art,
Appearing, and beginning noble deeds,
Might’st thou expel this monster from his throne,
Now made a sty, and, in his place ascending,
A victor-people free from servile yoke!
And with my help thou may’st; to me the power
Is given, and by that right I give it thee.
Aim, therefore, at no less than all the world;
Aim at the highest; without the highest attained,
Will be for thee no sitting, or not long,
On David’s throne, be prophesied what will.”
  To whom the Son of God, unmoved, replied:—
“Nor doth this grandeur and majestic shew
Of luxury, though called magnificence,
More than of arms before, allure mine eye,
Much less my mind; though thou should’st add to tell
Their sumptuous gluttonies, and gorgeous feasts
On citron tables or Atlantic stone
(For I have also heard, perhaps have read),
Their wines of Setia, Cales, and Falerne,
Chios and Crete, and how they quaff in gold,
Crystal, and myrrhine cups, imbossed with gems
And studs of pearl—to me should’st tell, who thirst
And hunger still.  Then embassies thou shew’st
From nations far and nigh!  What honour that,
But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear
So many hollow compliments and lies,
Outlandish flatteries?  Then proceed’st to talk
Of the Emperor, how easily subdued,
How gloriously.  I shall, thou say’st, expel
A brutish monster: what if I withal
Expel a Devil who first made him such?
Let his tormentor, Conscience, find him out;
For him I was not sent, nor yet to free
That people, victor once, now vile and base,
Deservedly made vassal—who, once just,
Frugal, and mild, and temperate, conquered well,
But govern ill the nations under yoke,
Peeling their provinces, exhausted all
By lust and rapine; first ambitious grown
Of triumph, that insulting vanity;
Then cruel, by their sports to blood inured
Of fighting beasts, and men to beasts exposed;
Luxurious by their wealth, and greedier still,
And from the daily Scene effeminate.
What wise and valiant man would seek to free
These, thus degenerate, by themselves enslaved,
Or could of inward slaves make outward free?
Know, therefore, when my season comes to sit
On David’s throne, it shall be like a tree
Spreading and overshadowing all the earth,
Or as a stone that shall to pieces dash
All monarchies besides throughout the world;
And of my Kingdom there shall be no end.
Means there shall be to this; but what the means
Is not for thee to know, nor me to tell.”
  To whom the Tempter, impudent, replied:—
“I see all offers made by me how slight
Thou valuest, because offered, and reject’st.
Nothing will please the difficult and nice,
Or nothing more than still to contradict.
On the other side know also thou that I
On what I offer set as high esteem,
Nor what I part with mean to give for naught,
All these, which in a moment thou behold’st,
The kingdoms of the world, to thee I give
(For, given to me, I give to whom I please),
No trifle; yet with this reserve, not else—
On this condition, if thou wilt fall down,
And worship me as thy superior Lord
(Easily done), and hold them all of me;
For what can less so great a gift deserve?”
  Whom thus our Saviour answered with disdain:—
“I never liked thy talk, thy offers less;
Now both abhor, since thou hast dared to utter
The abominable terms, impious condition.
But I endure the time, till which expired
Thou hast permission on me.  It is written,
The first of all commandments, ‘Thou shalt worship
The Lord thy God, and only Him shalt serve.’
And dar’st thou to the Son of God propound
To worship thee, accursed? now more accursed
For this attempt, bolder than that on Eve,
And more blasphemous; which expect to rue.
The kingdoms of the world to thee were given!
Permitted rather, and by thee usurped;
Other donation none thou canst produce.
If given, by whom but by the King of kings,
God over all supreme?  If given to thee,
By thee how fairly is the Giver now
Repaid!  But gratitude in thee is lost
Long since.  Wert thou so void of fear or shame
As offer them to me, the Son of God—
To me my own, on such abhorred pact,
That I fall down and worship thee as God?
Get thee behind me!  Plain thou now appear’st
That Evil One, Satan for ever ******.”
  To whom the Fiend, with fear abashed, replied:—
“Be not so sore offended, Son of God—
Though Sons of God both Angels are and Men—
If I, to try whether in higher sort
Than these thou bear’st that title, have proposed
What both from Men and Angels I receive,
Tetrarchs of Fire, Air, Flood, and on the Earth
Nations besides from all the quartered winds—
God of this World invoked, and World beneath.
Who then thou art, whose coming is foretold
To me most fatal, me it most concerns.
The trial hath indamaged thee no way,
Rather more honour left and more esteem;
Me naught advantaged, missing what I aimed.
Therefore let pass, as they are transitory,
The kingdoms of this world; I shall no more
Advise thee; gain them as thou canst, or not.
And thou thyself seem’st otherwise inclined
Than to a worldly crown, addicted more
To contemplation and profound dispute;
As by that early action may be judged,
When, slipping from thy mother’s eye, thou went’st
Alone into the Temple, there wast found
Among the gravest Rabbies, disputant
On points and questions fitting Moses’ chair,
Teaching, not taught.  The childhood shews the man,
As morning shews the day.  Be famous, then,
By wisdom; as thy empire must extend,
So let extend thy mind o’er all the world
In knowledge; all things in it comprehend.
All knowledge is not couched in Moses’ law,
The Pentateuch, or what the Prophets wrote;
The Gentiles also know, and write, and teach
To admiration, led by Nature’s light;
And with the Gentiles much thou must converse,
Ruling them by persuasion, as thou mean’st.
Without their learning, how wilt thou with them,
Or they with thee, hold conversation meet?
How wilt thou reason with them, how refute
Their idolisms, traditions, paradoxes?
Error by his own arms is best evinced.
Look once more, ere we leave this specular mount,
Westward, much nearer by south-west; behold
Where on the AEgean shore a city stands,
Built nobly, pure the air and light the soil—
Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts
And Eloquence, native to famous wits
Or hospitable, in her sweet recess,
City or suburban, studious walks and shades.
See there the olive-grove of Academe,
Plato’s retirement, where the Attic bird
Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long;
There, flowery hill, Hymettus, with the sound
Of bees’ industrious murmur, oft invites
To studious musing; there Ilissus rowls
His whispering stream.  Within the walls then view
The schools of ancient sages—his who bred
Great Alexander to subdue the world,
Lyceum there; and painted Stoa next.
There thou shalt hear and learn the secret power
Of harmony, in tones and numbers hit
By voice or hand, and various-measured verse,
AEolian charms and Dorian lyric odes,
And his who gave them breath, but higher sung,
Blind Melesigenes, thence Homer called,
Whose poem Phoebus challenged for his own.
Thence what the lofty grave Tragedians taught
In chorus or iambic, teachers best
Of moral prudence, with delight received
In brief sententious precepts, while they treat
Of fate, and chance, and change in human life,
High actions and high passions best describing.
Thence to the famous Orators repair,
Those ancient whose resistless eloquence
Wielded at will that fierce democraty,
Shook the Arsenal, and fulmined over Greece
To Macedon and Artaxerxes’ throne.
To sage Philosophy next lend thine ear,
From heaven descended to the low-roofed house
Of Socrates—see there his tenement—
Whom, well inspired, the Oracle pronounced
Wisest of men; from whose mouth issued forth
Mellifluous streams, that watered all the schools
Of Academics old and new, with those
Surnamed Peripatetics, and the sect
Epicurean, and the Stoic severe.
These here revolve, or, as thou likest, at home,
Till time mature thee to a kingdom’s weight;
These rules will render thee a king complete
Within thyself, much more with empire joined.”
  To whom our Saviour sagely thus replied:—
“Think not but that I know these things; or, think
I know them not, not therefore am I short
Of knowing what I ought.  He who receives
Light from above, from the Fountain of Light,
No other doctrine needs, though granted true;
But these are false, or little else but dreams,
Conjectures, fancies, built on nothing firm.
The first and wisest of them all professed
To know this only, that he nothing knew;
The next to fabling fell and smooth conceits;
A third sort doubted all things, though plain sense;
Others in virtue placed felicity,
But virtue joined with riches and long life;
In corporal pleasure he, and careless ease;
The Stoic last in philosophic pride,
By him called virtue, and his virtuous man,
Wise, perfect in himself, and all possessing,
Equal to God, oft shames not to prefer,
As fearing God nor man, contemning all
Wealth, pleasure, pain or torment, death and life—
Which, when he lists, he leaves, or boasts he can;
For all his tedious talk is but vain boast,
Or subtle shifts conviction to evade.
Alas! what can they teach, and not mislead,
Ignorant of themselves, of God much more,
And how the World began, and how Man fell,
Degraded by himself, on grace depending?
Much of the Soul they talk, but all awry;
And in themselves seek virtue; and to themselves
All glory arrogate, to God give none;
Rather accuse him under usual names,
Fortune and Fate, as one regardless quite
Of mortal things.  Who, therefore, seeks in these
True wisdom finds her not, or, by delusion
Far worse, her false resemblance only meets,
An empty cloud.  However, many books,
Wise men have said, are wearisome; who reads
Incessantly, and to his reading brings not
A spirit and judgment equal or superior,
(And what he brings what needs he elsewhere seek?)
Uncertain and unsettled still remains,
Deep-versed in books and shallow in himself,
Crude or intoxicate, collecting toys
And trifles for choice matters, worth a sponge,
As children gathering pebbles on the shore.
Or, if I would delight my private hours
With music or with poem, where so soon
As in our native language can I find
That solace?  All our Law and Story strewed
With hymns, our Psalms with artful terms inscribed,
Our Hebrew songs and harps, in Babylon
That pleased so well our victor’s ear, declare
That rather Greece from us these arts derived—
Ill imitated while they loudest sing
The vices of their deities, and their own,
In fable, hymn, or song, so personating
Their gods ridiculous, and themselves past shame.
Remove their swelling epithetes, thick-laid
As varnish on a harlot’s cheek, the rest,
Thin-sown with aught of profit or delight,
Will far be found unworthy to compare
With Sion’s songs, to all true tastes excelling,
Where God is praised aright and godlike men,
The Holiest of Holies and his Saints
(Such are from God inspired, not such from thee);
Unless where moral virtue is expressed
By light of Nature, not in all quite lost.
Their orators thou then extoll’st as those
The top of eloquence—statists indeed,
And lovers of their country, as may seem;
But herein to our Prophets far beneath,
As men divinely taught, and better teaching
The solid rules of civil government,
In their majestic, unaffected style,
Than all the oratory of Greece and Rome.
In them is plainest taught, and easiest learnt,
What makes a nation happy, and keeps it so,
What ruins kingdoms, and lays cities flat;
These only, with our Law, best form a king.”
  So spake the Son of God; but Satan, now
Quite at a loss (for all his darts were spent),
Thus to our Saviour, with stern brow, replied:—
  “Since neither wealth nor honour, arms nor arts,
Kingdom nor empire, pleases thee, nor aught
By me proposed in life contemplative
Or active, tended on by glory or fame,
What dost thou in this world?  The Wilderness
For thee is fittest place: I found thee there,
And thither will return thee.  Yet remember
What I foretell t
WistfulHope Nov 2014
I am suffocating.
There are people with smiles and sweaters,
Asking me questions, judging me, pretending to care.
Sitting close around the table,
Trapped with no escape; pinned.
Looking my tormentor in the face, faking fine.
Taking hours to poke and stoke
The unyielding heap on my plate.
Bubbly mindless chatter -- external.
Dread and vile hatred -- internal.
My eyes betray my lie and show the truth I hide.

I am suffocating.
Under my own weight.

I am suffocating.
I am not better.

I am suffocating.
I am not thankful for stuffing.
Thanksgiving.
A familiar kind of painful, not thankful.
AmberLynne Jun 2014
Times before I've looked at my own insides,
Delicately moved my own private sword across the flesh
And watched as I proved to myself I was still alive
Despite what I felt inside, I knew what I saw. 
Don't ever call me weak. 
Days before I've stared into the eyes of my tormentor
And pretended nothing was awry though I knew
I knew he'd prove my bravery false later that night
Don't ever call me weak. 
Before, I've dropped pills in my hand, watching them cascade as a waterfall
And let them slide down my throat by the hundreds
Knowing there would be no coming back after I laid down
Waiting for my gentle release
Don't ever call me weak. 
Times before I've walked the halls of school, 
hearing others complain but knowing that was my happy place
Because "home" held such worse torments
Don't ever call me weak. 
Days before I've medicated, taking in more than should have been possible
Knowing that at any moment I could be taken
But never stopping, only going back for more
Don't ever call me weak. 
Before, I've watched with hawk-eyes every morsel that passed my lips
Going days without sustenance 
But knowing it was worth it in the end
Because I had gained control over my life, finally. 
Don't ever call me weak. 
Don't you ever ******* call me weak.
6.1.14
She thanks him for the scars she got
As they helped her become numb
She thanks him for the tears she wept
As they helped her become strong
She thanks him for her crushed hopes
As they helped her to grow up
She thanks him for the words he threw
As they helped her build her walls
She thanks him for the worst years of her life
As they helped her appreciate the years later

Yet she curses him for all the innocence he tarnished
As she now sees the world and its reality.
Time can heal wounds but can't make you forget them
Katie Oct 2018
If tomorrow I shattered and fell, pieces skimming across dark secrets
Through the thick fog of my broken heart, the damp heat of desperate whispers
Would you gather my jagged edges, and hold me close until you bled?
Drown in that seductive ******, the digging of hard lines into flesh
The intoxicating raw agony like wildfire and the wetness of crimson liquid
It tears at old wounds, gnawing and ******* at bone
A mad beast too long caged, ravishing itself from within

Would you let me mark you with my teeth and tongue?
Rough and hard and lingering
A whimpering plea, breath ghosting over scars
Uncovering the smothering labyrinth of your release
Soothing away shadows of the cold and sharp blade

Would you help me swallow the suffocating lump in my treacherous throat?
Forget the dull fever of words left unsaid
Yearnings buried
Tears of blood left unshed
As the merciless flames tingled beneath weak fingers
Would you bear witness to the raging fire inside me
The warring instincts, the fierce longing to engulf and devour you
Destroy you as you destroyed me
As this toxic void between us became my most exquisite form of torture

Would you let me drown out the numbness?
Fill you with pain, and peace and rage
Slash at your adamant walls, the pillar of steel you’ve become
And banish the biting chill gusting from your icy core

If at dawn my own prison cracked
And the harsh porcelain surface screeched under quaking talons
If the watery depths of the gaping bowl enticed me deeper
And you could see the insatiable itch twitching in my wrist
If you saw nails plunging into my own gullet
Coaxing and tempting the gurgling lava to dry lips
Determined and sinful, like a lovers’ sigh

If you could hear the filthy slap of moist skin, sickeningly ****** in its lethality
And the frenzied spasms of a retching savage
That yields completely to the pounding rhythm
To the animalistic beat of the tribal drum and the eager cave below
If you saw the burning inferno of tears stream down  my cheeks
Would you trace soothing circles upon my back?
Would you lay awake at night, staring emptily at the swirling blackness
Drowning beneath regret and confusion
Skin a flaming wasteland of death
Like I did for you

If they could all see the wretched creatures that cling to me
The incubus that rocks me back and forth
Lulling me to that macabre slumber of death
And whispering sacred screams into lovesick years
My saviour and tormentor, lover and abuser
If they could hear those sickly voices, see earth through my marred eyes
If they could feel the anathema of our thoughts
The loathing and self-hatred
The disgust of one’s own skin
And the monsters closing in
Would they still laugh?

If mother could see the ink sprawled there
Across the overstretched canvas
Of fat stuffed thighs
Each word a puncture, a proud and gaping ****
Would she still dare to strike?

If they knew for themselves
Gluttony itself has a taste
Could feel the poisonous **** slither down throats
And the comforting familiarity of its dead weight
Would they dare meet the molten daggers of my eyes?

If the lifeless blinking light is no longer enough
When the hollow words on screens do nothing
If I grow tired of the scraps you toss me
And the ravenous hunger hatches
Would you join me in destruction?

When both our demons are unleashed
And the skies cry black tears of anguish
When the makeshift smiles finally fade
And we walk among them naked
When they pay for their assumptions
And mother Earth howls for her loss
When angels flee their impending judgement
And there is nothing left but dying embers
Will you sit atop a throne with me
And embrace the madness we once feared?
For M,
You know who you are, and you know me best
Christian Bixler Nov 2014
I walk alone, out in the vastness
of space, heavens vaults, darkness
leavened by the brilliance of
unknown galaxies, and the far off
light of distant stars.

I am alone. lost in this eternal
field, of dark and light, black
and white, and all between,
shining, eternal light, to shine
forever, and bathe heaven, radiant,
in its undying light.

I wander, lost. Am I a spirit,
to wander so, sad and lonely,
cut off from the roiling, chaotic,
masses of humanity, and set to
wander, adrift in a brilliant sea,
vivid colors clashing always,
with the ever present void of
infinity?

But why, if I am here, are not others?
Where are they? Is space so vast, am
I to wander endlessly, lost in the void of
eternity, to be at last at peace, but to have
none others to share it with, none to join me
in my wanderings, none to acompany me
in my eternal journey, none to make it "our"
instead?

And what of Katerina? What of her? Is she here
wandering also, lost and alone even as I am,
enduring the silence of space, alone unto eternity
and beyond?

Or is she some other place, doomed to
eternal pain, locked away, to scream
unheard, save by her tormentor, some
thing of darkness, created from
the blackness of infinity, immortal,
set to guard the way to heavens bliss
the angels dying, falling?

Or is this all, this vast infinity, souls
doomed to wander forever, never
meeting, never crossing, alone
in solitude, forever and for all
the infinite centuries of eternity,
alone?

I wander here, lost for countless
years, stars vanish in heat and
light, whilst I wander, spirit
cast off, set adrift to wander,
centuries come and go,
while I stop to listen for
some imagined sound,
some human voice,
heard but unheard,
the darkness eats my mind,
while light replaces it,
with thoughts of
eternity, solitude and
bliss, together forever,
I and eternity, set to tread
alone through space, from now
until the end of Time.



I am alone, and I wonder,
perhaps, I am not
alone, perhaps I do not wander,
but instead set my feet to the path
appointed me. For perhaps those
stars were not always stars,
those nebulae not always so,
gaseous and vast, but instead were
souls like me, journeying only
to meet their ends as light and
gas and rocky spheres?

Perhaps, I shall know,
perhaps I shall see,
later amidst eternity.
I felt very small as I wrote this,
the vastness of space intimidated me and enthralled me,
as a man might feel when sighting God, and so becoming
lost in the infinite wonder of he.
Luridhope Jan 2012
Acerbic antagonist alliterates agonizing accusations,
blasting ******* backbiter butting beautiful bombastic brainy blond bomb.
Cumulative cranial casualties cease caveman's cognitive coherence.
Doom digger derides Daddy's dangling dire dreary ****.

Eclectic esoteric eccentric egotistical estranger;
Forthcoming fathoms fetch faithless fleeting father.
God given goblins gather gossamer ganglions;
Hell's hairy harlot harpies hover heeding Hyperion.

Ignatius imbibes irrevocably insisting,
"Jesus juggles justice's joy jarring jams."
Kindness kindles Kilimanjaro;
Malicious mountains melt, Mmm, morning marjoram.

Nothing negates Neanderthal ninnying.
Overt obsessions obfuscate original object of
purest passions, paltry past pinings,
quickly quieted, quelled,
resisted, relinquished, readily, ruefully, roundly
saturated, suffocated; surreptitiously silenced,
terribly torturing the thrashed tamed tormentor:

Ugly, ungrateful, unapologetic,
Vanity,
woefully wallowing, wailing, "Where's
Xanadu's
zeitgeist!?"
brain dead and feeling mean
no object is unbreakable no action is unforeseen

panic attack
panic attack
panic attack
panic attack

can i shake this craze
my tormentor is myself no exit exists in this maze

panic attack
panic attack
panic attack
panic attack

(repeat)
Zulu Samperfas Apr 2013
Today I called, they weren't, have to be the bigger person
A silent treatment has begun, and I am the adult,
all over a cat, and what is wrong to do--
to care for him
who would answer the phone?
Father, on the first ring
and he sounded nearly dead
and hollow
like I should be concerned the depression
or sadness so dense like the rotting seaweed at Mitchell's cove
at times you can't even see the sand there is so much dead sea vegetable
and flies, forever flies and the smell, from far away so toxic but from up close
seems to dissapear or maybe is simply too overwhelming
as he sits in his million dollar home, planning his Brazilian keynote
he won't have to give until September
It's nearly April and is he happy?

I often wish I could be so cold to leave someone's head spinning with pain and destruction
and walk away, as if nothing happened and that person is crazy anyway
and abandon and neglect and think nothing of it
but is he happy
go lucky?
Am I? Who endured so many of his rants and am still rebuilding and re-evaluating the ruins of my psyche he had such a hand in destroying?
Is it possible, can I now admit, that there is nothing to envy in his position?
That he himself is tormented inside his own head?
Wind in my face, skateboard wheels careening toward my destination with a fervent pace, so many groceries on my mind. My music blaring within my ears, filling the world with some gift wrapped three minute long purpose for being. No one else is in my world as I roll along the concrete sides, just enjoy the beauty of the moment. Then tragedy strikes like a viper in the dark, the spot in my mind that I manifested with wood and wheels and speed, all set to a musical soundtrack is shattered with a single blow. Not a pebble or unseen ledge but you. You come into vision, my thief of heart and soul, my dreamtime tormentor, my love that won't or can't subside. Trailing behind you of course is whatever you've replaced me with, some superior person in appearance or attitude. As I roll ever nearer, all can do is imagine our perfect conversation, you know the one... That one makes you fall in love with me again. but as our bodies close in on each other, almost until I could grab you and kiss you with the supreme passion I still feel, my imagination melts back into the part of the brain that keeps me sad and all I do is make a fake smile in your direction give a half hearted waive and continue passed, trying not look back at you and the person beside.

The store I find, has an excellent selection of wine and spirits. I pick one, douse myself in it's forgetful qualities and sleep without dreams. For once leaving you out of where you should no longer reside.
Amethyst Fyre Nov 2016
1) Because I want to fix those who are broken

2) So I can to pay back my debt to society for being a spoiled American girl

3) Because science makes me excited, and that's not easy to do these days

4) So I can be useful if we ever collapse into World War III, so I won't have to fight, could maybe protect my sister better, and yes, I really do think about that

5) Because people are beautiful and worth protecting

6) So that when automation takes over, I'll probably still have a purpose

7) Because death and I moonlight as schoolchildren on a playground, bully and victim, and rather than fearing my tormentor
**I want to fight back
Robs Mar 2016
I hear cruel laughter, I run and run,
Trying to get away from it,
Not wanting to hear it anymore,
But I still hear it,
And it's getting louder still,
Then I hear crying,
Is it my own voice?!
No, it is not,
Instead I see another man,
Who is wearing a red hat on his head.
He is crying, and begging for them to stop,
but they don't, they only act even worse,
toward the defenseless old man.
Then I see so many people spitting on the crying man.
Yet again, he begs for them to stop their cruelty.
Yet again, he begs for them to give him a reason.
But they don't stop, and they don't give him a reason.
In fact, it seems like his pleading inspired them to act,
Even crueller towards him, a frail old man.
Then they beat him, and torment him,
again and again. They use so many cruel methods.
And then he cries out in agony yet again,
Because he is afraid, because he is scared.
Because he wants to know why they are doing this to him.
Because he wants them to leave him alone.
And despite this,
No, because of this,
They continue tormenting him,
And then after a while of this,
He finally fights back,
And gets his revenge on one of them.
That tormentor's name is Antonio,
And he was one of the worst out of all of them.
For, to paraphrase this poor old man,
He, ie, Antonio, has disgraced me,
Sabotaged my bussiness, laughed when
I lost, mocked me when I gained,
Hated and mocked my nation,
The tribe of Israel, God's chosen,
The tribe of Judah, the Jews,
Thwarted my business deals,
Tried to turn my friends against me,
Tried to make my enemies act,
Even worse towards me, then they already do.
Why does he do these cruel things to me,
Because I am a Jew. Do Jews not have eyes?!
Do Jews not have hands?! Do Jews not have organs?!
Are Jews not human beings, like Christians?!
(They were already laughing, but this makes,
Them laugh even harder, for to them, the thought,
Of a Jew being a human being, just like them,
Is a joke to them, and a very funny one too.)
Do Jews not have senses, afflictions, passions?!
If you ***** a Jew, does he not bleed?!
If you tickle him, does he not laugh?!
If you poison him, does he not die?!
So if you wrong him, he isn't allowed to get revenge?!
What would you do, if you were in my shoes,
And either I, or any other Jew, wronged you?!
I know, you would get revenge on that Jew?!
So if you wrong me, I'm not allowed to do the same?!'
No, I am going to get my well deserved revenge.
The villainy you show me, I will repeat, much to
Your hypocritical outrage against it."
There is also another reason why,
He is so angry, and rightly so,
They also stole his daughter, Jessica from him.
Even worse, Antonio and Bassonio helped them do it.
So, with the law that he reveres,
He tries to get his revenge on Antonio.
Sadly, the law is biased against him.
Then he gets condemned,
And beaten, and punished.
Then, after taking everything else from him,
They take his faith from him, which was all
He had left that he loved. They force him to,
Convert to Christianity. He then cries out,
He then weeps, and this,
Causes them to laugh at,
That poor old Jewish man.a
Then they mock him,
"Silly Jew", they say cruelly,
"You don't have rights, only people have rights!"
They may not be using the same words,
But it's the same meaning,
Then the Jew says,
In his own words,
That he's a person too,
This makes them laugh,
Aw, he thinks he's people,
They seem to be saying,
In their own words,
And then I get upset,
How would you feel, I yell,
if he did this to you.
However, despite that they can't
Answer me, I feel like they have,
And they're telling me that,
he's a Jew, and they're Christians,
so he's an Alien, so they can be cruel,
Towards him, while he can't do anything
About it. What cowards those so called
Christians are, they bully an old man,
Who isn't allowed to do anything about it.
I want to cry.
I want to scream.
I want to stand up,
for him, for that old Jew,
who has nobody on his side.
But I know that they will never hear me,
For I am looking at a mirror,
A storybook, it's just a story,
About an poor old Jew named Shylock,
Who tried to get revenge on his
Worst tormentor, Antonio by
killing him, so Antonio wouldn't
Be around to hurt him anymore,
But he failed. And all because,
He's a Jew, just like me.
I'm looking at the past,
I'm looking at a storybook,
A world where Jews are aliens,
Second class citizens.
It isn't my life.
And that is a thing,
I am very grateful for,
And I cry for him, for I know,
that he won't be okay. For he is
plagued by those cruel Christians.
I cry for him, for I am a Jew too,
But I was lucky enough,
To escape being born during,
The time that story was in.
I won the lottery of time,
By being born in the
Modern day, the 21st century.
I was fortunate enough,
To be born in a time,
Where Jews are allowed to be,
Citizens, instead of being an
Alien, subject to Alien Laws.
As was the fate of poor Shylock.
It was a lucky accident,
For me to be born,
in my country, in my time,
And If I wasn't as fortunate,
As I am, as I truly am,
I could have been born,
Back then, in the story's time period,
In the Venice of his time, in the story,
Where I would have been treated so cruelly,
Without even being allowed to defend myself,
Thank goodness I wasn't born in the story,
For I have rights that poor Shylock,
Can only dream of, and longs for everyday,
Thank goodness that I'm not in the same position,
As poor Shylock, but I must study that time,
So it will never happen again.
A poem about the contrasts between my life, and Shylock's life. I have rights but he doesn't, it's really sad.
Zulu Samperfas Sep 2012
You hold the key to my financial future
This job.  You, the boss
and I think you're crazy
In a zone where nothing makes sense
Where the ground is unstable and shifts
And I look around at hollow eyes
moving and very busy
You
and you are simply quite mad
Ashley Nicole Oct 2014
Never truly gone
Always lurking
In the dark corners
Of my conscience
The unseen tormentor
Holds me hostage
In my own mind
I'm betrayed by my own self

          Turn it off...
              Turn it off...
                   Turn it off!

It spits words
Of hate and anger
Completely relentless
And vile -- there's no escape
Impossible to hold your ears
And not listen
When the insults are coming
From your own head
Just when I thought I had my emotions in check...
Sky Jan 2016
She sinks,
curled into a fetal position,
clutching the gold chain to her chest,
letting herself fall through the blue
Her eyes closed,
squeezed tightly shut,
so she doesn’t see the figure
pushing through the jeering crowd,
yelling at her tormentor,
flying through the air.
She doesn’t feel the ripple
as he dives into the water.
As her thoughts fade away,
bubbles slipping from her lips,
she feels arms wrapping around her
to carry her away.
Even as she’s gasping for breath,
she keeps her eyes shut
as she’s carried out of the blue.
And it’s only when she’s placed upon
a surface that is warm and soft
rather than hard and unforgiving
That she finally opens her eyes
to greet her savior.
She shivers, looking into eyes
that are far too warm to be human
But they are set in a human face
that shows only genuine concern,
with a lips that part to send a question into her consciousness:
“Are you okay?”
She just stares at him,
and suddenly starts to cry
Because she never knew
that anyone could ever care.
Max O Jul 2011
To the one I call pure:
tormentor,
teasing me with everything you have,
making me think of only you

Your beauty,
your grace,
your charm,
all of it brings you so much brighter,
with so many others thinking the same thing,
how am I suppose to think it,
How am I suppose to compeat with so many others,
others that are smarter,
or better looking than myself,
why should I even try,
but I can't help thinking
woman of so few words to me,
I too am with so few words,
forced to just think


To the one I call pure,
my dreams label you as my tormentor,
my poison,
I see you high upon a golden throne,
looking at so many,
yet I stand here being one of many,
I can not stop thinking of what could happen,
just can't stop thinking of the one,
pure.
Klaus Dec 2018
Nightfall, through the door,
Bedsprawl, a ritualistic bore. Movements, they're oppressive. Actions, they're aggressive but his eyes, they're depressive.

Our synthetic connection and self-hatred is created with projection and misplaced indignation. There is no love in our heads, no lust in our beds. The fear of emasculation and eternal damnation hides all self-loathing with boasting and congruent clothing.

My Y was castrated. I'm a ****** from the womb. I'm Female, for unsated gloom  my X is berated. I'm named a disgusting mutation as he projects his deveation onto the population.

When his shameful "pride" has diminished, I know our joyless formality has finished. He doesn't sit in the pew, yet he stands in the aisle, locked in a prison of denial. Tough and brisant, trying to be what he isn't. He walks out like a ragdoll, his steps aneurysmal with alcohol.

Beside myself, salty tears act as an anaesthetic, the antonym of emotion. An apathetic ocean.

I clutch my centre, the daunting tormentor. Impregnation is a STD, an infection, an infestation. Glue for our miseries to undo our joys. Merriment induced torment, fidelity induced gaiety
And nine months later I was born :)
Emma Chatonoir Mar 2015
It just wasn't enough anymore
I couldn't pretend to love everyone
Because my kindness destroyed me mentally
No longer could I be different around everyone
But also be the same girl
I lost myself with everyone I met
And that I had to act differently around
Just to make sure not to offend them
No one truly knew who I was
Because I created so many sides to myself
I would never lie, just hide information
Never admitting I was hurt
I protected people from tormentors
Even if I agreed with the tormentor's side
Soon enough, I had no idea who I was
Was I a kind heart
Or the kind of heart that would hide things
In order to not break someone else?
And then I realized
No is a complete sentence
And I shouldn't feel bad for saying it
The lonely people will eventually find someone
I am not to blame
I am happier than ever now
Knowing I am not a lifeline
But I still fear the temptation
Of being nice to someone
Who may deserve the kindess
But who will give me undeserving pain.
K Balachandran Nov 2012
Arresting artificial bloom from a  make believe garden,
Oh! magalomaniacal face of ill gotten glamour,
ribald queen of the kitsch, with endless variety in store,
age, cannot wither your, unmistakable garish taste-
or sadistic delights, each you do organize is outrageous,
than the one before, no doubt, how do you manage?
                  
I'll forget all those in an instance, but, that kiss, oh! that,
the one you gifted, to show you were pleased utmost,
stealthily away from the eyeshot of your posse of lovers,
other cannibals and party animals, under the darkened staircase,
was the last godforsaken straw;
 what a poor camel can do? if you so desire,
beggars, never were the choosers, you'd tell yourself,
in a self congratulatory note,
                      that much I am aware, my dear tormentor!
Jon Po Dom Feb 2017
Anoint me with your fragrant oils
Lubricate my body, my *******, my tips, my being
Absolve me of my sins for you are my Master
And I... I your humble sub,
Your tool, your toy, your masterpiece
To do with as You please

I have sinned against you and disobeyed your Instruction
So I may feel your wrath
Impose Your will on me Sir
Hurt me with pleasure as you once did
Make me scream in sweet agony;
My hands grasp the linen sheets beneath me,
Fiery kisses burn upon my flesh
Take my will away that I may
Crave more and more, for my ***** are set ablaze
The immensity of pleasure

Make these Mountains shake and tremble
In fear of the Unknown
The springs erupt with volcanic ecstasy
And gush like a dam overflowing,
Powerful and Uncontrollable

Take me to your harsh World
To Your... Hell
Where time is extinct
The Sun never rises
And the Moon looks upon me with envy

Grasp my hair and command me with your words
Choke me until I see the light,
And the Darkness overtakes me
Bite my ears that I may see the stars
**** my neck that I may lose my breath
Kiss my Passion with passion
That my bridge may arch
Hold me as I come undone
Close to your body
That you may admire what you've done

Until the next time my Master
When you shower me with pain,
Hurt my flesh and the darkness reigns over me,
Your humble sub

JM 2/27/17
A poetic story. Part 2 of a series.
susan Jun 2015
blown apart by a glance
withered by a look
stomped
      battered
   and beaten
without a hand being raised
or a word spoken
the power to destroy
just by turning your head slightly
and giving a cold eyed stare
the words have already been spoken
the bruises long healed
    and covered up
and now the power you've built
               is kept alive
deep within your eyes.
K Balachandran Sep 2012
This heaviness, a stone in the chest,
a brooding passion flower,
fully at bloom, at moonlit night-
emits the distinct scent
of the tormentor of my heart,
an intoxicating accent it exudes--
which cages my mind.
Lust is its subtext.

Lungs are bottled up
with a mix of her pheromones,
signature perfume and the musky
scent of her sweat,
If a girl, with that intensity
gets in to the system, mixes in blood,
it's excruciating pain, is a bane,
and an insane ecstatic bliss, same time!
This isn't animal instinct, I know,
didn't she bare her mind though on the sly,
in words that has many facets, like a diamond?

No, still not sure, feels like an idiot,
(Wasn't she quite an artist,
playing with my heart?
But I am totally her's, can't help it,
from those moments,
which refuses to leave me in peace)

A longing that won't
let me take her off
from  my mind's GPS.
Oh! now, shut both eyes and imagine
her undress in slow moves,
her lush, chiselled form, sends me
waves of fragance,
I am on the verge of collapse...

Then-
suddenly the phone rings,
she complains
a heaviness of heart,
***** thoughts that-
refuse to go to sleep.
"What would you do for this?"
she  anxiously whispers,
"Hey, you are the only doctor,
I can lay my hands on,
to keep this malady at bay,
I badly need you near here,
**Is it true?
Am I falling in love with you?"
I am Leah Sharibu
I am Nigeria
I am a captive
Taken from my home
Away from love and care
Now I live in fear
In the midst of the unknown
I am Leah Sharibu
I am Nigeria

I am Leah Sharibu
Oh! You have forgotten me, probably
I wouldn't blame you
I am just a girl, you thought
But I am Nigeria
And I could be just your girl
Yet you go to bed with both eyes closed
Because I am just a girl.
How do you sleep?
How do you find peace?
How do you laugh with satisfaction
And Find rest?
Knowing I am Leah Sharibu
And I am Nigeria

I am Leah Sharibu
Who is she? I can hear you ask.
Oh! You've forgotten?
I am that "Dapchi girl"
Kidnapped with her school mates
But they are free and I am not
They gained their lives back
Because they are what I am not
That's what some people thought
But I am not just "that Dapchi girl"
I am Leah Sharibu
I am Nigeria

I am Leah Sharibu
I am Nigeria
And I am a captive
I am in chains
I am in bonds
I am in pains
And I am not free
I am still missing
I am Leah Sharibu
I am Nigeria

I am Leah Sharibu
I am a Christian
That's what you said
But I am more than a Christian
I am a girl child
I am a woman
I am a daughter
I am a mother
And I am a wife
But I am more than all these
Yes! I am
I am Nigeria

I am Leah Sharibu
I am Nigeria
Though you called me a Christian
Undoubtedly I am
Was that not why you left me behind?
Was that not why you've left me till now?
How callous? How unpatriotic?
You swore an oath to protect me
But you lied
You think calling me a Christian
Will clear your conscience
But you lie!
I am Nigeria
That's my identity
I am Leah Sharibu

I am Leah Sharibu
I am Nigeria
I have been betrayed
By Deceivers parading themselves as leaders
By cowards parading themselves as heroes
By liers who embraces you with a dagger
I have been betrayed
By enemies camouflaged as friends
I thought they cared about me
But all they want is a piece of me.
So they don't care if I bleed
I am Leah Sharibu
I am Nigeria

I am Leah Sharibu
I am Nigeria
I am not missing
You can see me
But you've refused to free me
You've made me your slave
Everyday you **** me
Everyday you **** me
Everyday you brutalise me
Everyday you torment me
Despite the oath you swore to protect me
You have become my terror
My Kidnapper
My tormentor
My killer
My captor
My destroyer
I am Leah Sharibu
I am Nigeria

I am Leah Sharibu
I am Nigeria
I can see, you don't care, who I am
You think I will just pass away
Like a shadow in the night
Another figure among the many lost
So you hope
But you lie
I am your fear
I am your shame
I am your story
Ugly but true
I am your cross
You must bear
I am your pain
And I won't go away
I am Leah Sharibu
I am Nigeria

I am Leah Sharibu
I am Nigeria
You can **** me
But I won't die
Though ****** with many swords
And bleeding on all sides
You will always hear my cries
Because I live on....
You can try to hide me
Like a woman's nature call
But I won't go away
I will be your nightmare
And walk the night in your sleep
I will be your nemesis
And follow you to your grave
I will be your infamy
Lay you bare for the world to see
I will be the truth
That topples your lies
And I pray that I will be your end
So you'd be no more
I am Leah Sharibu
I am Nigeria

I am Leah Sharibu
I am Nigeria
Another night has come
And I pray for sleep
Not knowing if I will see the dawning of a new day
You expect  me to be weak
To break down and fall
You expect me to be feeble and frail
But I won't
Everyday I see the sun
I will grow strong
Everyday I take a breath
I shall be agile able
Don't expect me to give up
For I shall win at last
I am Leah Sharibu
I am Nigeria.
Dedicated to Leah Sharibu the Christian girls still in Boko Haram Captivity and other girls held in captivity and have not been rescued by their government if Nigeria
Brady D Friedkin Jun 2015
I see the work of my hands
I see the results of my will
I set my eye over the lands
I know I was too weak on that hill
I didn’t realize the journey’s demands
The pains in my side remain still

I set my foot upon that path
Over my shoulder I saw my pain
I run from the Monster’s wrath
If his way is made, I will be slain
There on my arm, I see the ****** ****
It seems this journey will be in vain

The Monster haunts me in my dreams
He follows on this path with chasing
No matter how loud I cry, it seems they won’t hear my screams
No one knows just what I’m facing
I run until I see flowing streams
And find my love, we’re embracing

From this dream I wake
The truth in this dream I dread
With this Monster, my will may break
But on this path, I will tread
And I will walk until I ache
On the path my Father led

I wander down this lonely road
In this deep dark wood
As I walked alone, my pace it slowed
Until I stopped and stood
By the streams that flowed
And for a time, all was good

The fire I had built begins to smolder
The smoke from the dead warmth rose
The night then grew colder
I thought for sure I would be froze
Then I saw the Monster over my shoulder
I can see in his eyes, my fear shows

I run hastily away from the Monster
He chases me through the dark
I know he leads me to slaughter
If only I could create a spark
In the darkness, I would no longer wander
Then maybe I might hit my mark

The Monster leaves me at sunrise
My pain vanishes with the light
My soul is calm like sunny skies
For a time, all is right
But as soon as the sun dies
There comes the pain of night

My night is filled with torment
And my days filled with fear
This journey is filled with lament
Oftentimes I fear the end is all too near
It seems something I cannot prevent
And the injuries I’ve acquired are all too severe

The pain is too great to continue down this road
Knowing the Monster is on my back
The weight I carry is too heavy of a load
The courage to continue is something I lack
But my Father gave me guide with the words he wrote
And with each encounter, I defend the Monster’s attack

Every night I see I’m not on my own
I’d be dead if not for my Father
With each fight, each night, I’ve grown
I no longer wonder why I bother
At the end, I’ll approach my Father’s throne
And the Monster will be but a scoffer

Still the Monster haunts when the sun is gone
It’s as if I’m stuck in his box
And I can never move on
Because still the Monster mocks
Weak. I feel as weak as a fawn
Yet somehow as strong as an ox

It’s a strange feeling
Being torn between pain and relief
Yet both are healing
It’s hard to hold to belief
When everything is reeling
When it’s always about a new leaf

Still I feel the pain from the hunt
The Monster always drawing blood
He’s always just steps behind, though I’m in front
I tread through deep mud
Only for him to catch me with his heavy brunt
Now I’m caught in this painful flood

Constantly I cry for my Father to save me
For someone to take me from my misery
But what I wanted was not what He gave me
A man came and was my victory
For my evil, He forgave me
And why He did is a mystery

He defeated the Monster on my part
He took on my pain and we limped down the path
He felt the pain I held in my heart
He experienced my pain from the Monster’s wrath
He had been with me from the start
Always interceding on my behalf

He acted as my brother
He defeated my tormentor
He cared for me like my mother
He dwelled in the pain left by my torturer
He was sent by my Father
biche Aug 2014
Perhaps more sedatives?
(O pedestal in that candy creme cloud
Sweet silence of soothing sound
Smooth surface silky shroud)

Or - I have an idea -
Self-"discipline"!
(My mate, my enemy, my tormentor
My mentor, my mantra, my memory)

Both, no doubt.
A fine line between tamimg
Amy's weeping and wailing
And enabling her host's power of three!
Her understanding, aligning and conquering!
A feat we have actually seen.
And despite the blinding whir
(A side effect of the action)
This imagery is not merely
In her (or your) dream.

She as this Trinity, it would appear,
Is not so few and far between
As you tell yourself - and me -
Just to be mean.
Then again you're right:
We both supported that
Unsubstantiated "theory"
For a long time
And for bad reasons
Let's be perfectly clear.


Because obviously she is not infallible!  
And when she slips, and Amy
Gets wind (Woe! I can't pull
Myself together - O no! Not again!)
Darkness descends on our lives,
O yes,  yes it does. As farce. Again.

Out come sharp knives.

You and they think she punishes you.
With her Woe, but no.
The simple truth is she does not.
How can she blame you
For her biological weak spots,
Related though they be
To your life here - Please -

Look! Just look next time,
And listen. Believe. 
She punishes herself -
It's a nervous hysterical spell
An energy temped out from hell
The rage is diluted
(She thought you could tell)
In wild senseless pleas
Meaning nothing!
Nothing I tell you.
Nothing in and for
Eternity.

— The End —