"trafficked" poems
They still exist;
Both literally and metaphorically.
Little girls *** trafficked,
Boys slave in sweat shops,
Buissnessman works a 60 hour week.
Everyone's got their own chains.
Some we put on freely,
Some are ****** upon us,
like maturity on an orphaned child
--Some are cut into our wrists.
With every lie,
With every curse,
With every slander,
Pain built up creates inside
these fine little links;
Alone they are weak, but together
UNBREAKABLE
27 million slaves in the world
But that's just an estimate.
When we look inwards
We see so. many. more.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
The chatter makes me think, think
Think, think of the brink,
Of extinction,
Of my pain,
And our scars,
The world is pressing too far,
Hurting,
Discovering,
Totally uncovering,
The weaknesses of people who can't take care of themselves.
Those people who are crying out for help.
The kid hit by his momma,
The girl depressed from drama,
The kid starving in Africa,
The teen trafficked from Albania.
This world is cruel,
Totally uncool.
People think it's minuscule,
These real problems that people face,
Every god ****** ******* day.
White privilege is a real thing,
And sexism is an issue,
Homosexuality is not a miscue,
And the only person who can make change,
Is
You
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 12:47 PM UTC
we say we're the land of the free and home of the brave
yet thousands of people are still trafficked as slaves
they say ignorance is bliss and maybe it's so
but the world will never change if you never know
join with me in prayer on their behalf as we fight
for darkness to be penetrated with irrepressible light
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 8:42 PM UTC
*She was costly Bordeaux
he was recycled biker leather,
her classic affluent beauty
yearned for motorcycle thrills,
she lifted him up a grade
he brought her down to street level,
they fused at steamy rush hours
under trafficked high ways,
pursuant to reckless merging
reality's intersections accelerated
crashing expedited speed limits,
would never again drive
mid smoothly paved junctures
at the standard rate of normal*
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
Ever had the feeling of being trapped in a glass box
with the air slowly running out, with every breath?
In sun, rain, snow and storm, the box gets dark or warm
but what you can do always remains the same.
Have you just simply wanted to walk away or break free?
To travel the world taming Lion cubs and petting great white sharks?
To wake up to a sunrise in a Dutch farm and watch it set over the Mediterranean sea?
To teach children in Thailand or India?
To salsa on the streets of Mexico or be blinded by the lights in Dubai?
Have you ever wanted to be border-less?
To not be punished for being born in a country
where the sun is hot and people are poor?
Have you ever just wanted to work, get a place, pay taxes,
and not ignore the growling of your stomach
so your 5 pound takeaway stretches over 3 days
postponing the date to buy the next food stock?
Have you ever wanted to check your bank account
without having your fingers crossed, because
even though you know the exact balance
you hope by some miracle it will be more?
Have you prayed for immigration to back the hell off
leaving you to make a living without risking deportation?
Have you ever got tired of playing by the rules when
the Albanian Mafia and Walmart
makes more money per hour than what you'd make in a lifetime, or two?
With heart aches and emotional games, and
attending Sunday mass becoming more of a cliché,
with rejection and doors closed,
at the cost of owning a brown passport,
with your head spinning and back against the wall,
have you wondered what life wants from you at all?
To all the women being trafficked for ***
and the children slaving away spinning Persian carpets,
tonight it's too cold to snow outside my glass box.
Inside, it's too sad to cry...
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
They squirm inside their clothes
tweed, chiffon tiered skirts, and bows
of their grandmothers’ sepia, halcyon days
with lumberjack flannel and Kerouac quotes,
but it’s more a matter of age than size,
these charging, listless, candid creatures
with hairstyles that can only be described
as gravity readily defied and self-cut,
frequently dyed to shades that swing
between black coffee and New York poetry
deep imagism and social realism against the backdrop
of American Apparel ads on scratched up Macs.
They slouch up and down trafficked Newbury,
dropping names like Morrissey and Bukowski
pausing now and then to pick up on the ennui
of twenty-three, and how they will one day live la vie
Dharhimian, running on American Spirits,
James Dean, Truffaut chic,
a monthly check from their parents,
an apathetic sneer at holding anything too dearly
and how they hate that word—hip-ster.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
Dear Daughter:
I've cleared out the paths for you.
I figured you'd want one of the more trafficked ones.
I packed you some snacks for the road,
some shoes to walk on,
some friends to walk with.
You are the first born,
I wasn't sure what to do for you.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 4:45 PM UTC
Igor was torn between casting
the body of a girl
or young woman,
that was merely sexually attractive -
or whether to employ a procession
of young nubiles as secretaries;
now that Natalia had thrown him over for Ivan,
he needed a girl or young woman
who was sexually mature;
possibly even suitable for marriage;
sexually mature; sexually attractive,
desirable, **** luscious; marriageable;
informally, beddable:
Ivan constantly surrounded himself
w/ a posse of nubile young women,
to forget, that's what Eli needed to do;
mid 17th century: from the Latin nubilis
‘marriageable,’ from nubere,
to cover or veil
oneself for a bridegroom;
from the nubes the ‘puffy cloud-like nips’
of a child bride;
[risqué]
photos of coeds of the
fifties & those of
| _sex-trafficked nubiles_
from last week; |
glamour isn't glamorous;
as GMO skanks get injected
w/ female growth hormones
just in case they
decide to
to be mothers someday
slightly indecent or liable
to shock, especially by being sexually
suggestive; "risqué humor" ribald,
rude, ***** Rabelaisian, ***** ****
earthy, indecent, suggestive,
improper, naughty, locker-room;
****** ***** ****** crude, adult,
coarse, obscene, lewd, ******
blue, raunchy; off-color
"risqué stories": mid 19th century: French,
_past participle of risquer ‘to risk’_
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:04 AM UTC
Hello Eve
I Am Man
let me MANipulate you
make you MINE
Helen of Troy,
I held you on high
Put the *****
on a pedestal
Mary,
divinity in the
mirror, mirror
objectification
of my own reflection
Sophia,
Set my soul on fire
sex-trafficked my heart
into art
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
Thy blowing blue breakers
sweep overboard,
take color away from
the faces of the men,
washed in white walled foam
and cyanotic sapphire
speak novels in seconds
no well placed punctuation
such is the way of the sea
*I'm searching the heavens
for happy notes
over sour tones
and mis-pitched harmonies.
As I stargaze, I'm trampled
by depressive episodes and felonies.*
Now,
your bold bone breakers
bring drought and salt
but nothing savory here.
Nothing ventured and
nothing gained,
streets washed of life, weeds,
wear and tears
the only water to be found
wasted on self expression
instead of survival.
Such is the bane of our fathers.
Women's feet shuffled like playing cards
and men's backs bare a striking resemblance
- striking? stricken -
to the laugh-lashed shaming
of their own emotional dilapidation.
And might your mind be free
from weather and tears
you have but to hear/see/smell the broken
to become undone
Like so many pages, dead dry leaves
nestled inside leather-bound luxury with a broken spine.
Thy mindless diction fixes
namebrand problems to
hot button topics,
trafficked into pipelines
down polluted broadcasts of
girls girls girls...
Your voice bellows and breaks.
We are nothing.
Whatever color or shape you take,
We are nothing.
Whenever you go and
whichever language you abuse,
remember in your heart that we are
nothing
like
you.
Women's feet shuffle on hardwoods
bringing heart to the beat
as men's whitewashed canvases carry
the quintessence of quixotic movements
in and about key changes
the same as we paint our love
around the fringes of each other
and frame unfamiliar faces in lip-locked sepia
blushing, brushing
we carry the color of previous strokes until
we are each our own historic hue
staining others for future use
in cobalt, mauve, maroon, chartreuse
We harness our pain
in the alchemy of experience
to create beauty.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
Sunday 40,88 82 82 80 82 Between South Africa, Brazil and Macedonia 600-100-300 300 John Wilson, 300 + 40.82 Congress, eight letters, George Washington. Brazilian art gallery More than 1,300 years later, German, African and Chinese ****** arrive in South Africa, Mexico, Brazil, 60.6006 million 40600300600 (20) ******* divorcees, 8,8,8,8, Brazil, Brazil Brazil, 600 600 600, 600, 82 300, 300, 300 Brazil, 40.82 - another "teacher" in France France is full of ****** from Brazil 600-100 - Six dogs and ****** are full of the fruity aromas of Carmen Campbell, a woman who lives with prostitutes; Prostitutes have existed for 300,700 years (according to Tom Wilson) 300 8 George W. Ashington, USA Euro, Brazil, Brazil, Gabon, Morocco, Ra Ramalin, Harlem, 0.82, Latin America, Africa, Macedonia, South Africa, 40.82, Yobe Africa, Morocco, 40-82 years. MacDonald's, May 2, South Africa, Curse, United Kingdom, Russians, whores' ****** and G'ilimão de Mécoques 2011 6,000,000 days in South Africa, China, South Africa, Go-Go UK / EU. Yuku Uyu and 600, 600, 600, 600, 600 Google ****** Yeh, one Sunday, George Washington attended the coronation of George W. Murray 40.82 600-100-300 300 300 Tom Wilson has Good News for Ephraim in South Africa, ****** from Africa And South Africa bloom in the dust of South Africa. 82300300 has a place of landing for Brooklyn ****** Washington ****** and ****** from East New York in South Africa with 600 600 000 300 (8) 600 doctors, South Africa Google with more than 600 people. 5-300000 600,600,000,600,600 600,000 John Wilson, George Washington, 200,000 in 50000 - 60000600402 in the morning 6006,0066 3006 63 00000 100 600 600 600 600 ****** are here. 600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,
600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,00,600,660,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,
600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,60,6 ******* canned report 600600600 40, 82, Brazil, South African and possibly poisonous, 300B - ******* for Tom Wilson, Rudolf, Morocco 600-100-300300 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 1300 Brazilian Producers Paul Paulson, Wilson 2: 40.82, South Africa, South Africa and Brazil 600 600 600 United States' 'Hamster' Washington 100 6006006 Miami, Florida 300,600 82.3003 million more in Brazil, South Africa, Mexico and Russia; Tom Hamilton 40.82 to Morocco and Brazil, South Africa; Freedom in Ohio as a frontier wife, Macedonia, Brazil; United States, Spain, Brazil 20.8 Aborigines, Moroccan, Brooklyn and Harlem ****** 0.82, Decoration: Often, a professional, in fact, is a pre-recorded decision. Others see teenagers, while others see "magic." Doyle is the most vicious woman, of the bride for $15 per night to support her classmate, the "ex" ********** who is still a ********** The figures show that prostitutes are from the local community, that they are disgusting ****** and a woman who has been trafficked for less than a month can reduce stress she receives through using a ********** **** ******* your *** is your money! Your ******* donkeys, and donkeys are your money.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
Now, this is a story all about how
My life got flipped, turned upside down
And I'd like to take a minute
Just sit right there
I'll tell you how I became the most non-human trafficked animal for my keratin hair.
In the west Philippines, born and raised
In the burrows of hollow trees is where I spent most of my days,
Chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all young
Eatin' some bugs with my elongated tongue.
When a couple of guys who were up to no good
Started poachin' everythin' in my neighborhood.
My homie got hunted, but my mom made it through
She said 'You're movin' with your auntie and uncle in the zoo.'
I whistled for a conservationist and when they came near
Their license plate said “IUCN” and they had brothers in the rear.
If anything I could say they should drive me too,
So I hopped in the back - 'Yo, homes to the zoo.'
I
pulled
up to a building about seven or eight
And I yelled to my savior 'Yo homes, smell ya late'
I looked at my kingdom,
Where the poachers couldn’t get to,
As I sat in my enclosure as the Pangolin of the zoo.
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 11:10 PM UTC
Arrival time now
at the self-medication station
where I sit behind the counter
and fill my own prescriptions
to feed the yearning for a funny joke
or a crystal vision.
Pointing with precision
at the problem then
painting pictures all around it,
the mother-me is thinking of
grounding the other-me
until I learn to keep my bathroom clean
and stop to relish in the heaven or hell
of the living daydream instead of
screaming "Escape!" and attempting to make a run for it.
I suffer because I know that
I know better, but
I'm still standing outside in the snow
without shoes on, singing the blues
in fusion with hues of deep purple and lackluster green.
I mean really, baby,
can't we just get a move on and make it past two?
The eternal toddler trapped
only by an always increasing sense of
potential mishaps and wondering if she can sit back and forfeit
a society whose headphones are in and cranked
while walking through a heavily trafficked intersection
without looking both ways.
Call me crazy, but
I hear the melodies, distant
across mountains calling.
I'd rather be a river running than
part of the system, humming.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
To the girl with the pin-up dreams
I hope you found
what you were looking for
Your James Dean
I tried my best to be
I'm sorry,
But I'm a different
brand Americana
Our Country's soul
lost in translating
trafficked
hearts
and Ten things I hated
about your favorite movie.
Even though it's secretly my fav.
I was always too weird for you
like an American ******
self-entitled indigo child
Feed me a stray soul
and I'll spark a new revolution
be the poster child for madness
This is what you told me was best for me
To exploit my demons
to muse the madness
To rebel with or without a cause
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
2023, timemindspace
in the future, my attention
is the cost,
I imagine I love what I am being,
a riverwise mathematical being, seeing
my self realization occur
on the existing internet, according to plan,
according to the web trafficked clear text codes
Wee'll see, now, this is me editing me,
with intention, I wish to focus
home fires, village commons,
re-aquainting me, with my dreams. Simple as pi.
Undulatus Asperatus one day,
Altocumulus the next,
yes, we all have
seen clouds from both sides now,
with no mountains to climb,
nor wings or wind to lift us,
we stop calling now unbelievable.
Believe me,
one lief left to relieve your self, a tip
to insure proper
service.
Think, softly, so no sign, no tell tells
the rule of law, chances are, chaos is not evil.
Jan 12, 2023
Jan 12, 2023 at 4:41 PM UTC
To concretize my theorized love,
I could play the accidental odds and strew
slippery tongues of spotted petals
onto thickly trafficked highways,
or use the best predictive modelling
to deduce when and where I can poke out
a well-heeled boot to trick unwary spills
and ****** a kiss from the unsuspecting
lips of any suitably compatible
passerby oft times inconvenienced and passed
on by.
These well-oiled and crudely experimental
methods do produce expected results,
but not the breakthrough nor the looked-for
satisfaction of appropriate reactions,
so I'll keep my dotted eyes tucked in
their pulpy stems and my shoddy toes curled back
while I beam my bits of invitation through
circuitous routes spatially arrayed along
parallel paths where one might search
with an extra-terrestrial inventiveness,
and wait.
I know the trials of these errant waves
won't add up to a guarantee
my burpy blips of a pulse can reach
the receptively comprehending and responsive
soils I seek, but it's the remoteness of a stead
to come stalking that appeals, and despite
the Hawking drone of unveiled warnings
I might regret such contact, I'll risk it all
on vaguely washed wishes this astronomical
anomaly with an alien sensibility has
one match.
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 3:15 PM UTC
Check in impatiently
hauling light luggage -
downturned eyes,
bundled fifties,
skull packed with sickly
sugarplum notions
Stiff key-card door and
three hanger closet -
leave your mittens, jacket,
and conscience dangling
Towels
cotton-knit sandpaper
no softer than well-trafficked
threadbare tawny-port carpet and
your hands and feet pretend
not to feel it
nervously,
a bit numbly,
you notice her standing
with glacial stillness
moments away from
the foot of the bed
Two crooked lampshades and
dim headboard lights
close their eyes when
the mattress springs
first compress,
the air tingling
with dustbunny snowflakes
This room is too dark now,
something like snowblind,
but you don't really want to see
do you?
Frostbite when she touches you
and somehow this bed
is more welcoming
than your own
you'll remember her
february fingertips
and hailstone hair,
a sensation of northerly winds
strange how heavy the comforter feels
sprawled across your skin
you envision an ice slab,
see it suffocate
a slow-flowing river,
and your breath quickens
if only because your lungs
have been crushed
then, just before hypothermia,
she leaves,
lights off,
wallet lighter,
you stay whiteknuckled, lightheaded,
half-consumed by a snowdrift,
beneath the duvet -
dazed
your tongue sits confused,
having asked for peppermints
and been given ice cubes instead
and when you finally rise,
and thaw your limbs
and try not the slip
on the black ice
she always leaves
by the door,
Try to forget
you paid
hourly rates
and shed your clothes
that you might find warmpth
in a blizzard
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 6:29 PM UTC
I didn't want to believe them;
I wished to maintain my faith
in who I thought she was;
I was proven wrong.
Oh, so very wrong.
Over and over again.
They were right about her
and I should have listened
instead of assuming I knew her.
Word spreads much like a wildfire:
"Drunk on Ego and rather mean,"
I fear they were right about her.
"Narcissistic **** of a basket case,"
I should have listened to every word.
"Fun, until you get too close and start to care,"
it seems they knew how it goes;
"Gets under another to get over herself"
Okay, to be fair,
on one hand
everyone needs a rebound sometimes,
but,
on the other hand,
she never stops bounding
from one
to the next
to the next
and back
then to the next
and et cetera
ad infinitum;
both behind your back
and right to your face.
That ****
will never be the same;
sure glad it's not mine
to maintain.
Such a shallow temptress.
Such a public Temple.
That ****
will never be the same;
sure glad she's not mine
to entertain.
I covet not her Temple,
for few exist more heavily trafficked
that don't charge palpable admission
for maintenance; unless, of course,
that's where the copious volumes of ***** come in.
Word seems to spread
quicker than her legs
for her latest fancy,
which is really no small feat.
Word seems to get around,
just as what's said of the fair Strumpet;
and, unfortunately but unsurprisingly,
they are ******* right about her.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
I was facing upwards
Toward the machinery of solar bursts
In an attempt
to harness
the power
of
oblivion
I could feel jolts of electricity
Passing through me
Via the star interface
The planets were tangible
at one point
they started
to communicate
with me
Telepathic intervention
The committee of sleep
was calling me out
in a hallucination of reality
They preached of untapped energy
A floodgate opened
pouring presence
of my racing thoughts
and the rest
of the trafficked ghosts
of inspiration
Slit the throat
of the communication vortex
At the risk of spilling my guts
But I needed to say something
I was at the edge of my own impulses
Trying to hold myself back from jumping
To feel alive
as long as I'm falling
back into the arms
of my sacred sanctuary
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 6:18 PM UTC
I live on a small (25 sq. mile) island, accessible only by ferry.
<>
“For we are dear to the immortal gods,
Living here, in the sea that rolls forever,
Distant from other lands and other men”
—Homer, the Odyssey (translated by Robert Fitzgerald)
<>
*sea air inoculates the slowing breath-taking ferried voyager,
our landed cares felled, fall into a wake, trailing, sunk & submerged,
a ferry’s ramp contact-clangs, belling a “Here, Here!” alters our mien,
the softening airy enveloping, fragrantly, a greeting of immortal gods*
*no matter that we can vision-easy the neighboring isles, with
their trafficked-light busyness, the to and fro of mainland life,
bustle necessity of hustle, our riveted river moat cancels out
imposing surround sounds, our untucked flavor, floating free*
*wafting perfume of quiet inlet, creek and harbour, touch us safely,
alternating currents of gentle breeze, stiffer sailing winds, gusts,
bending us, these reminders, we humans too, creatures of elementals,
water, sun, forest, sand, animals, singular upon co-hosted menagerie*
*the brackish water, where fresh + marine waters mix, live + die,
reflecting our pooling diversity, so few of us born here, yet so many,
adopt and adapt the isle’s peculiarities, endearing all without any
distinction, we blessed together by Immortal Gods to shelter together,
by, from, the seas that roll us into one peaceful island, nearly, dearly,
and now departed*
<>
Shell Beach,
Shelter Island
August 2021
Aug 7, 2021
Aug 7, 2021 at 1:28 PM UTC
To the ones who were taken!
The ones that left for greener pasture!
For those that eloped…
Insearch of love and comfort.
To the ones whose country was at war!
Had to leave not because of the fun.
To you all who have not seen your relatives in decades!
To you all I hail thy!
Your country may be in disarray
You may had been trafficked
Maybe even by mistake.
Yet a new home you had to find
To you, I hail thee!
To the anchor babies, the ones who got bullied…
for what they are not responsible for.
You are my star!
You shine so bright they find it hard not to pick from you. 'Not on you'.
For the great brains that have to live with little, for lacking a Green Card!
You are bigger than what they thought of you.
Your turn to succeed would come. Please don't give up.
Her mother's daughter
The one that was told of great opportunities.
She left with big dreams! Only to see the cruelty of the world she knows nothing of.
In your is the odyssey. Your strength is unmatched!
For our ansestors that were taken and made slaves.
Called "Colored" because of their beautiful skin
Our dashing Milani beauty!
Oh! Your flawless skin under the ray of the sun or its coolness with every cold breeze.
A Resistor!
My ancestral goddess. You found a home amidst all odds.
To you! I hail thy!
And to you is this day celebrated.
Happy International Migrant day!
Dec 18, 2022
Dec 18, 2022 at 8:19 AM UTC
international women’s day is not only to celebrate strong female leads, nor only to appreciate the accomplishments of the likes of Harriet Tubman and Ada Lovelace. they have both contributed to history, changed the course of life, and allowed us to live in the world we live in today, among other women who have fought and have proved their place in this life. these women fought stereotypes, and marked their names in history.
but today is also for the weak women; for the immigrant mothers who are separated from their loved ones, for the exploited workers in Bangladesh, India, etc..., for the women being trafficked on the borders, for the young girls forced into early marriage, for the women harassed and silenced in fear, for the ones you hear about daily but only in theory.
let’s celebrate women as a whole, because this is much more than achievements and titles, this is a fight for rights, rights that exceed historical achievements that occur once a decade. here’s to more titles, to more love, to more understanding, and to equality.
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 3:29 AM UTC
D O N T
you see?
It wasn’t my pathetic unrequited love.
Nor was it the vanishing of you.
It wasn’t the sorrow I felt while you faded.
Nor was it the recognition of our expiry date.
O P E N
Your eyes.
It was your kindness
It was them sweet white lies you whispered to comfort me.
To protect my feelings.
C A N T
you
see?
You wasn’t letting me down gently.
You wasn’t being noble.
You just prolonged my inevitable misery.
You let the emotion of belonging cement to then just carelessly erase it.
Please
L I S T E N
To me
That mutilated me.
That broke and wrecked me.
That made me contemplate everything.
It
S H A T T E R E D
Me
And yes my own love was the executioner
But you tossed me away
Trafficked me to the devil.
His favourite play is the mockery of
H O P E
You were just his little minion.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 8:31 PM UTC
dear girls,
don't listen to those
toxic waste of garbage
telling you how to treat
your own body
too many times
those spider webs
were poured into our head
cobwebs muddling our brain
with poisons that
made us think that stabbing
other girls will make it better
and too many times
we are forced to listen
because if we don't
it is a matter of
life and death
we live in a world
where it is fine
to **** someone
to **** someone
if you blame it on
their clothes
how they act
how they blink
how they breathe
how they exist
we live in a world
where a girl is only
worthy of being treated
like an actual human being
if they are someone
mother's
sister's
daughter's
dear girls,
you are living in a world
where common sense is
askew
where our body is trafficked
as currency
sold, robbed
of their choice and consent
where we armored our self
with sharp nails and keys
every time we walked home just
a little bit too
late
where we are afraid,
because entitlement is savage,
claimed, right and left,
by undeserving hands
as if we are food to be eaten
when ever they please
it is important to know that
but it is also important to know
that none of it is your fault
dear girls,
you are the owner of your body
it is yours, and
forever will it be yours
in death, in life
in marriage, in teen hood
society may tell us
that our purpose here
is only to give birth to a child
and listen to whatever men say
dear girls,
society is wrong
we are so much more
and we can do better than that
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC