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"unreported" poems
I have fears – they are very real to me. But contrary to what the some may think, my greatest fears are not rejection and abandonment. My greatest fear is that everyone will continue to turn their heads while victims are screaming. My greatest fear is that survivors will express exactly how they feel, whether verbally, or acting out, and they will continue to be invalidated by being told they need medication and therapy in order to control their behavior, thereby reinforcing what they learned as children. My greatest fear is that victims will continue to be silenced by therapy, or numbed from medication, and the clinicians, the researchers, will continue to ‘theorize’ and develop treatment that, in the long-run, is not helpful because they, themselves were NOT abused and have no idea what really should be done. My greatest fear is that survivors will continue to be lab rats in the development of treatment that is not helpful, they will continue to drop out, time after time, and they will continue to self-harm, ‘repeat the trauma’, and possibly commit suicide because they believe no one cares. My greatest fear is that the statistics will grow and no one will do anything about it because they do not know what to do. These are the facts:              **A report of child abuse is made every ten seconds              More than five children die every day as a result of child abuse.              Approximately 80% of children that die from abuse are under the age of 4.              It is estimated that between 50-60% of child fatalities due to maltreatment are not recorded as              such on death certificates.              More than 90% of juvenile ****** abuse victims know their perpetrator in some way.              Child abuse occurs at every socioeconomic level, across ethnic and cultural lines, within all              religions and at all levels of education.             About 30% of abused and neglected children will later abuse their own children, continuing the horrible cycle of abuse.             About 80% of 21 year olds that were abused as children met criteria for at least one             psychological disorder.** And this reflects only what is reported. Imagine what that percentage would be if all of the unreported cases were included. And of the millions of children that survive the abuse, many grow up to be adults who are able to put it behind them, succeed and present themselves as an acceptable member of society, and many of them do not. But what are we DOING about it? When will people stop turning their heads? When will we finally stop, look and listen to these children being abused and to the adults who were abused as children? When will we, society, decide that child abuse, and **** and ****** assault are important, and affect millions of lives every year, and that it can be just as deadly as cancer. When will we finally stop whispering and turning our heads and actually face it and do something to stop it, and effectively treat those who ‘survived’? I hope it happens in my lifetime, and I hope I can make a difference!
0
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
My Greatest Fear
I have fears – they are very real to me. But contrary to what the some may think, my greatest fears are not rejection and abandonment. My greatest fear is that everyone will continue to turn their heads while victims are screaming. My greatest fear is that survivors will express exactly how they feel, whether verbally, or acting out, and they will continue to be invalidated by being told they need medication and therapy in order to control their behavior, thereby reinforcing what they learned as children. My greatest fear is that victims will continue to be silenced by therapy, or numbed from medication, and the clinicians, the researchers, will continue to ‘theorize’ and develop treatment that, in the long-run, is not helpful because they, themselves were NOT abused and have no idea what really should be done. My greatest fear is that survivors will continue to be lab rats in the development of treatment that is not helpful, they will continue to drop out, time after time, and they will continue to self-harm, ‘repeat the trauma’, and possibly commit suicide because they believe no one cares. My greatest fear is that the statistics will grow and no one will do anything about it because they do not know what to do. These are the facts:              **A report of child abuse is made every ten seconds              More than five children die every day as a result of child abuse.              Approximately 80% of children that die from abuse are under the age of 4.              It is estimated that between 50-60% of child fatalities due to maltreatment are not recorded as              such on death certificates.              More than 90% of juvenile ****** abuse victims know their perpetrator in some way.              Child abuse occurs at every socioeconomic level, across ethnic and cultural lines, within all              religions and at all levels of education.             About 30% of abused and neglected children will later abuse their own children, continuing the horrible cycle of abuse.             About 80% of 21 year olds that were abused as children met criteria for at least one             psychological disorder.** And this reflects only what is reported. Imagine what that percentage would be if all of the unreported cases were included. And of the millions of children that survive the abuse, many grow up to be adults who are able to put it behind them, succeed and present themselves as an acceptable member of society, and many of them do not. But what are we DOING about it? When will people stop turning their heads? When will we finally stop, look and listen to these children being abused and to the adults who were abused as children? When will we, society, decide that child abuse, and **** and ****** assault are important, and affect millions of lives every year, and that it can be just as deadly as cancer. When will we finally stop whispering and turning our heads and actually face it and do something to stop it, and effectively treat those who ‘survived’? I hope it happens in my lifetime, and I hope I can make a difference!
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22
I tilted my head . I wilted and was dead - No longer entangled in this snare called life - none the less remembered, respected Dejected in my illusion - Where i wander most often, unclaimed and disillusioned - Whatever was I hoping for- longing in which to see - the distorted , unreported - dismemberment of ME - Expectations are like curses, drowning and alienating ALL who dare to dream - The Ideals of a stranger - I am now what I seem
0
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 7:50 PM UTC
Ejected from Illusion by Andrea Murray
Acrostic poem Necessity of society Intensity of people agitation Redefined the common man’s power Boiling over attacks on women Hot-tempered youth Ashamed to say Yardstick of behavior Assault on women go unreported -Naveen
0
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
Nirbhaya
Now: The EMTs respond. A Jane Doe is found dead. Beneath the I-90 overpass. They lift her Zip her into a bag, And transport her to the morgue. They can’t feel sad. Today: The few wispy strands of hair that remain Dangle haphazardly from her scabby head Jagged misshapen teeth protrude from dry cracked lips betraying breath that stinks of infection and decomposition Vermin gnaw on exposed flesh while parasites feast within. Her eyes dim as her body putrifies. Last Week: Mission workers prop her up against the wobbly chain link fence A thin blanket is wrapped around her bony shoulders and Her blue-tarp awning is adjusted She would be less wet and cold. For a night. They leave a cheese sandwich and chicken noodle soup. The rats eat most of it. She wouldn’t have kept it down anyway. Last Month: The shelter is scary and dangerous. She couldn’t sleep without nightmares and her screaming disrupted other ‘guests’. The shelter workers apologize and put her out at 2:19 AM. She finds a spot between two dumpsters. It reeks of **** but is unoccupied. Sometime in the dark she is ***** and beaten by two crackheads. The crime is unreported. Last Year: The fluorescent lights sting her eyes. The antiseptic smell burns her nose. The noise and chaos that surround her make her dizzy and disoriented. She fights hard to get away but is restrained by strong hands – then leather straps. A painful jab in her arm and then nothing. Days or weeks later she emerges in a haze. Kindly eyes greet her. They stay with her. They accompany her to the shelter. They tell her to come back for follow-on care. She never sees them again. Before: The divorce rips her heart in two. She has nothing. She is nothing. Her world crumbles beneath her and she crumbles with it. Where would she go? What would she do? Everything has become so wrong. Once Upon a Time: She was happy. Joyful. Filled with life and hope. He was smart, funny, successful. Together they were magical. Perfect.
0
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
Sometime in the Dark
Now: The EMTs respond. A Jane Doe is found dead. Beneath the I-90 overpass. They lift her Zip her into a bag, And transport her to the morgue. They can’t feel sad. Today: The few wispy strands of hair that remain Dangle haphazardly from her scabby head Jagged misshapen teeth protrude from dry cracked lips betraying breath that stinks of infection and decomposition Vermin gnaw on exposed flesh while parasites feast within. Her eyes dim as her body putrifies. Last Week: Mission workers prop her up against the wobbly chain link fence A thin blanket is wrapped around her bony shoulders and Her blue-tarp awning is adjusted She would be less wet and cold. For a night. They leave a cheese sandwich and chicken noodle soup. The rats eat most of it. She wouldn’t have kept it down anyway. Last Month: The shelter is scary and dangerous. She couldn’t sleep without nightmares and her screaming disrupted other ‘guests’. The shelter workers apologize and put her out at 2:19 AM. She finds a spot between two dumpsters. It reeks of **** but is unoccupied. Sometime in the dark she is ***** and beaten by two crackheads. The crime is unreported. Last Year: The fluorescent lights sting her eyes. The antiseptic smell burns her nose. The noise and chaos that surround her make her dizzy and disoriented. She fights hard to get away but is restrained by strong hands – then leather straps. A painful jab in her arm and then nothing. Days or weeks later she emerges in a haze. Kindly eyes greet her. They stay with her. They accompany her to the shelter. They tell her to come back for follow-on care. She never sees them again. Before: The divorce rips her heart in two. She has nothing. She is nothing. Her world crumbles beneath her and she crumbles with it. Where would she go? What would she do? Everything has become so wrong. Once Upon a Time: She was happy. Joyful. Filled with life and hope. He was smart, funny, successful. Together they were magical. Perfect.
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58
The lives we've chosen are leaving us broken (Do you need your) Crammed in a corner, don't speak unless spoken to (Blue screen covers?) December's coming close to reignite the ghosts Of elder superstition, mythology becomes religion again! Marry me, my darling We've only seconds left to go I know I'm not the life of the party But no one here wants to die alone! Let sleeping dogs lie! You're kicking a Dead horse! To arms! To arms! To arms! Left wing and sou-souwest. Cheers to the masses for forgetting the past (Sticks and stones) Beautifully passive, raising our glasses (This is our home) I want to ignite you, that's why I'm spiteful And loathing your masters, hiding in laughter! So walk away, you harlot. Far too tired to give you time You're not worth the effort I made to hide in My hope for the world to split Let sleeping dogs lie! You're kicking a Dead horse! To arms! To arms! To arms! Bury our fears in our outlets. Last call before we close the door Just wait until the power's down Let it be known coast to coast What we've hidden underground. Drive a hatchet into your front door, Inside us all is warrior bone Burn up all your televisions Destroy all your telephones! The future shall not be distorted No crime shall go unreported Give it to them as you found it Without homes, without a sound! I'll give my words, shut up and listen: The old ways died and no one missed them, Don't you see your hallucinogens Are no excuse for ignorance? Let sleeping dogs die. You're kicking a Burnt bridge. To arms! To arms! To arms! Behold the 22nd.
0
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 12:39 AM UTC
Bovine Blues
The lives we've chosen are leaving us broken (Do you need your) Crammed in a corner, don't speak unless spoken to (Blue screen covers?) December's coming close to reignite the ghosts Of elder superstition, mythology becomes religion again! Marry me, my darling We've only seconds left to go I know I'm not the life of the party But no one here wants to die alone! Let sleeping dogs lie! You're kicking a Dead horse! To arms! To arms! To arms! Left wing and sou-souwest. Cheers to the masses for forgetting the past (Sticks and stones) Beautifully passive, raising our glasses (This is our home) I want to ignite you, that's why I'm spiteful And loathing your masters, hiding in laughter! So walk away, you harlot. Far too tired to give you time You're not worth the effort I made to hide in My hope for the world to split Let sleeping dogs lie! You're kicking a Dead horse! To arms! To arms! To arms! Bury our fears in our outlets. Last call before we close the door Just wait until the power's down Let it be known coast to coast What we've hidden underground. Drive a hatchet into your front door, Inside us all is warrior bone Burn up all your televisions Destroy all your telephones! The future shall not be distorted No crime shall go unreported Give it to them as you found it Without homes, without a sound! I'll give my words, shut up and listen: The old ways died and no one missed them, Don't you see your hallucinogens Are no excuse for ignorance? Let sleeping dogs die. You're kicking a Burnt bridge. To arms! To arms! To arms! Behold the 22nd.
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48
They live among us. Who am I? We see them every day, we cannot know. Why me? Working day to day, the dead walking, leaving invisible trails of blood in their wake. I deserved it. Dreams filled with running, monsters hiding in plain sight, burnt out shells, devoid of human light. Why do I even care? Nights spent alone, sleep cannot take it away, no safety found in their homes, smoldering ash, where human beings used to be. Maybe if I... All avenues cut off, seething pain turned to numbness, the burden of the day, phantom wounds cut to the quick, by the time we're aware, it's far too late. Why am I so unworthy? This story is as old as time itself, speak the word, tell this story to the forty-four percent who are still children, they're young, they'll get over it, tell it to the eighty percent under thirty, it builds character, tell it to the walking dead born every two minutes, it's not my problem. When did God stop caring? The law, all encompassing, all knowing, all powerful, what a joke, indifferent, indecisive, imperfect science. When did home become a prison? Tell this story to the law, tell it to the judge, tell it to the predator, tell it to the sixty percent that go unreported, tell it to the ninety-seven percent that will never see the bars that bind, tell it to the two-thirds who knew their reaper, tell it to the thirty-eight percent who stared into the face of familiarity, the abysmal side of human nature. *Tell this story to the one-fifth of women in this country, who fall prey to twisted shadows, the hearts of man, tell them that they are worthy*
0
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 7:32 AM UTC
Walking Corpses
They live among us. Who am I? We see them every day, we cannot know. Why me? Working day to day, the dead walking, leaving invisible trails of blood in their wake. I deserved it. Dreams filled with running, monsters hiding in plain sight, burnt out shells, devoid of human light. Why do I even care? Nights spent alone, sleep cannot take it away, no safety found in their homes, smoldering ash, where human beings used to be. Maybe if I... All avenues cut off, seething pain turned to numbness, the burden of the day, phantom wounds cut to the quick, by the time we're aware, it's far too late. Why am I so unworthy? This story is as old as time itself, speak the word, tell this story to the forty-four percent who are still children, they're young, they'll get over it, tell it to the eighty percent under thirty, it builds character, tell it to the walking dead born every two minutes, it's not my problem. When did God stop caring? The law, all encompassing, all knowing, all powerful, what a joke, indifferent, indecisive, imperfect science. When did home become a prison? Tell this story to the law, tell it to the judge, tell it to the predator, tell it to the sixty percent that go unreported, tell it to the ninety-seven percent that will never see the bars that bind, tell it to the two-thirds who knew their reaper, tell it to the thirty-eight percent who stared into the face of familiarity, the abysmal side of human nature. *Tell this story to the one-fifth of women in this country, who fall prey to twisted shadows, the hearts of man, tell them that they are worthy*
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58
A past corrupted. Innocence & happiness is interrupted. Evil & sin in this house has erupted. Justice does not protect & serve. Criminals never get the incarceration they deserve. To do unspeakable crimes they have the nerve. In Mexico.... To be some perverts *** Unreported child *** crimes bestow. Law enforcement will never know. Low priority cases never made it to the Hall of Justice. Uncredible witness unrecommended. My custodial declarations untrusted. Too many  crimes to count on two hands with fingers of five. Low lives with cheated wives. In jails they are still alive. The queen bee of their hive. A trust destroyed & betrayed. A little girls self-esteem frazzled & frayed. In danger she stayed. Clueless friends with daily she played. In my bed at night beside me his sickness laid. To sell my *** so he could get paid.
0
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 1:45 AM UTC
Tormented Child
Dubai, the shiny city among dunes built by migrant workers and their blood. Yes, this unparalleled luxury, hotel staff smile like bright buttons, or else. Your discontent may cost them their job, suicide among migrant workers go unreported; so guests can sleep easily in gilded beds. Dubai will sink in the sand when economic forces move elsewhere and this hubris on the parched soil will be a historical interlude. The wind in the night will murmur of untold suffering and the soul of the dispossessed shall whisper words for no one’s ears and shall be goats bleat before sacrificed on the altar of time without end; for this is the universal law, those you enslaved will arise and possess you.
0
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 3:44 AM UTC
dubai
Yes, this is another poem about **** Sorry, I know you’re exhausted from hearing them. Sorry, I know it makes you uncomfortable. **** There I go apologizing again. Ok. Reframe. Start over. Own it. This is a poem about **** and you better ******* listen. Ok too harsh, too harsh. They’re not gonna listen now. Again. Ok, uhh... personal story. One time my best friend and I were ***** by the same person. Ok wait, no... too personal. They’ll just pity me, instead of seeing the larger issue. Ok, I think I finally got it. To give you an idea of the numbers, all of my friends and I have been victims of  ****** assault. Great, perfect, not too personal, we can talk about it in the abstract like nothing terrible happened to me, specifically. That’s it. That’s it. That’s how we can talk about. Depersonalized, Submerging our feelings with facts. Statistics are our best friend. So here it goes: Did you know false reports of ****** assault are rare, ranging from 2 to 10% of all reported ****** assaults. That the percentage I just quoted was from a study that collected data over 10 years from reports on a college campus, after determining in a meta-analysis of 20 other studies on false reporting that the FBI data used was "unreliable." Conversely, about 63% of ****** assaults go unreported. Wouldn't it make sense to air on the side of believing women then? As opposed to casually insinuating they could have ulterior motives reporting ****** assault, political or otherwise. That isn't an argument. That is fear talking. That is guilt talking. That isn’t us having a conversation – that’s just you blabbering illogically, crippled by the fear you’ll be next. You are wrong. You are wrong! Your arguments are baseless. You are completely ignoring the facts. There is no evidence. You need to stop talking, and politely listen. Because you have a lot to learn. And while we are not obligated, many of us are willing to teach you: The only ulterior motive women have 'outing' people, for a CRIME they committed, the only benefit, is to make sure the person responsible doesn't **** someone else. And you not believing us, you chastising us, you rolling your eyes, you silencing us, lets that person walk free.
0
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 12:47 AM UTC
Yes, this is another poem about ****
Yes, this is another poem about **** Sorry, I know you’re exhausted from hearing them. Sorry, I know it makes you uncomfortable. **** There I go apologizing again. Ok. Reframe. Start over. Own it. This is a poem about **** and you better ******* listen. Ok too harsh, too harsh. They’re not gonna listen now. Again. Ok, uhh... personal story. One time my best friend and I were ***** by the same person. Ok wait, no... too personal. They’ll just pity me, instead of seeing the larger issue. Ok, I think I finally got it. To give you an idea of the numbers, all of my friends and I have been victims of  ****** assault. Great, perfect, not too personal, we can talk about it in the abstract like nothing terrible happened to me, specifically. That’s it. That’s it. That’s how we can talk about. Depersonalized, Submerging our feelings with facts. Statistics are our best friend. So here it goes: Did you know false reports of ****** assault are rare, ranging from 2 to 10% of all reported ****** assaults. That the percentage I just quoted was from a study that collected data over 10 years from reports on a college campus, after determining in a meta-analysis of 20 other studies on false reporting that the FBI data used was "unreliable." Conversely, about 63% of ****** assaults go unreported. Wouldn't it make sense to air on the side of believing women then? As opposed to casually insinuating they could have ulterior motives reporting ****** assault, political or otherwise. That isn't an argument. That is fear talking. That is guilt talking. That isn’t us having a conversation – that’s just you blabbering illogically, crippled by the fear you’ll be next. You are wrong. You are wrong! Your arguments are baseless. You are completely ignoring the facts. There is no evidence. You need to stop talking, and politely listen. Because you have a lot to learn. And while we are not obligated, many of us are willing to teach you: The only ulterior motive women have 'outing' people, for a CRIME they committed, the only benefit, is to make sure the person responsible doesn't **** someone else. And you not believing us, you chastising us, you rolling your eyes, you silencing us, lets that person walk free.
Continue reading...
101
you leave me - without a word full of shame, living crypt naked, empty, stripped the next morning - blurred hold me like old times; dreams deferred abuse unreported; wrists ripped you leave me without a word full of shame, living crypt investment and love, confidence spurred careful tread, but into your arms I slipped now your love comes with fees; shipped but I, your little bird you leave me without a word
0
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
you turn my world upside down
There is no more mystery, no hidden gem, No unfound treasure, no rock unturned, No land untrodden, no holy ground, #unfiltered all around. No want for tomorrow, no story to tell, No chinese whisper or wishing well, No unheard tick of a clocks pointed handle, No unchartered water or unlit candle. No patience to bare just one more day, No unscripted plays, leaving nothing to say, No route unmarked, no map undiscovered, No unbeaten tune, no songs uncovered. No sitting, wandering what might never be, Why bother wondering when google is free. No crime unreported, yes, a marvelous thing, But if crimes become nothings is war a greater thing? No boundaries obeyed, as cultures melt together, Empty replies downpour with "whatevers" And we stand back to witness, Life moving with such speed, Unable to slow it, barely able to breathe!
0
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 12:50 AM UTC
Camera's Clicking in my Ear
The mother pearl. Starved. Marveled by it. In the deep blue sea . Sparkling precious gemstones. In keyless entry without technology. Treasures like feathers. Marble statues you want to pursue. He thought you knew. Creepy janitor. Endless corridors. Vacant Lots. Dark stairwell. Late night patrol. Criminals out of control. Cereal for breakfast again in a bowl. Foul people. Full of regret. With a stubborn mindset. Don't fret. You don't need a vet. Let's make a bet. You'll be in my debt. You can try to disappear on a jet. I'll catch you in my net. You'll be my pet. A mistake I won't let. If you betray my trust. I will do what I must. You lost your wallet again? All your money gone. How sad. That's bad. Did you tell your dad? I guess you really are bankrupt. A life unfortunately got interrupt. It's disturbing how I choose my wording. Slime, mold, mildew. Gross slosh. Dreams of floating. Lard thats bloating. Braggers gloating. Forget everything I said. And all that you read. Meaningless words that make no sense. Confusing thoughts written. I can't concentrate on reading what I wrote. I blank out. It's not in here. Don't whisper in my ear. The same things you said to her. Nobody's jealous. Relentless ranting Annoying chanting. You choked me on purpose. Skipping thoughts. Unreported crimes. Shameful timing. Pityless weeping. Silent cries.
0
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 10:17 PM UTC
Page 35
The body of the deceased on it's death bed it lays the air reeks as it begins to decay causing the evidence of ****** to fade, No rest for the dearly departed as long as the crime stays unreported, maggots begin feeding on the flesh the body rots, ceasing to be fresh, Now the bone is stripped of skin completely consumed of its exterior revenge begins to spread within it reanimates to devour it's killer's interior...
0
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 9:00 AM UTC
Dearly Departed You Are Forgotten.
CONSUMED BY THE ****** HANGED BY THEIR SINS THEIR UNMISTAKEND FAULTS AND YET, NOT ONE SOUL CLAIMED THEIR WORDS BROKEN AND SEWN BACK TOGETHER WITH THEIR DISEASED FANTASIES "TELL ME, PLEASE TELL ME IT AIN'T SO HAD TO BELIEVE IT SO I WALK ALONE" UNREPORTED CRIMES OF ABUSE UNHEARD CRIES OF THE WICKED WE ALL LOST OUR WAY JUSTIFIED BY THEIR CRUELTY WHAT THE HELL IS LEFT FOR ME A DREAM DESTROYED "ALL HOPE HAS BEEN ABORTED INSIDE IM DEAD" WHY THE HELL SHOULD I CARE FOR THEM SCORNED WITH TRUTH I BLAME THEM ALL I COUNT THE MANY TIMES I WAS LEFT ALONE WANTING TO GO WHERE I FELT WARM AND SECURE THANK YOU FOR NOT SAVING ME "CAUSE YOU MAKE ME FEEL LIKE DOG YOU CAN'T SEE MY EMOTION"
0
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 7:15 PM UTC
My Very Own (Version 2)
Your words fall on deaf ears. Your voice I choose not to hear. Your breathe wreaks of stale beer. Get away from me no one wants you here. Away from here years ago & today. I wish there had been a way. To teleport or astroproject so I didn't have to stay. Towards someone good to connect. Of me people continue to neglect. Evil is who I deflect. Beauty is what I reflect. Loneliness is what I get. My eyes saw. What you did broke the law. Because of you ma kicked out Pa. Every fiber of your being has a flaw. Your morals are baked & your evil is raw. Your hands are like a devil's claw. Unfiled & unreported. My thoughts real & undistorted. The "mom" I disowned is disheveled Her house pak rat hoarded. Piles of filth & stench. To know your face. Ruined my past I can not replace. Here at home of crimes there was no trace. Police said low priority case. Heaven has been a disgrace. You've been banned from that place.
0
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 1:29 PM UTC
********** Whispers
Flesh, blood and natural eyes, cover up a battle that wages on Inside of the shell for human lives, personalities corrupted by principalities, realities distorted, when the truth is unreported, Biblical translations got people debating authentication, proving to me just how much they underestimating, The Holy Ghost Awakening, placing us in the way of truth too many are forsaking..don't be found in that number, Lord awake men from slumbers
0
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 10:43 PM UTC
The war natural eyes won't see
I do not write this poem to attack men Rather to make them understand the world in which we live Has been turned against us woman and left us in the dark Where ads, magazines, video games all make us out to be ****** objects with no brains And when that dark comes he will see us no more than a ****** object When we speak of #MeToo it is questioned What were you wearing What were you drinking Did you kiss him Did you go to his house Did you take any drugs The ****** assault hurts less than the accusations When principles, parents, friends all victim blame you The sense of wanting revenge is replaced with wanting it to disappear. 2 of 3 ****** assaults go unreported because woman don’t feel like we’re being heard. We are victim blamed and we are tired of being treated like **** When health education and the media are more open with consent And rapists actually get jail time Is when I will live in a world where I am okay with having a girl as my child But as of right now I am scared shitless that I will not be able to protect her from the ugly That is why I stand with the #MeToo movement
0
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 2:40 PM UTC
#MeToo
as I go in one ear and out the same my brother’s kid comes to in the mind of a beast that like any beast exists as its own memoir of unreported sightings made to chart god by sound
0
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
payphone
So to my daughter, should any fool mishandle the wild geography of your body, How it rides a red-running current Like any good wolf or witch just bleed, Boo Give that blood a biblical name Something of stone and mortar Name it after Eve's first rebellion in that garden Name it after the last little girl to have her genitals mutilated in Kinshasa That was this morning . Give it as many syllables as there are unreported **** cases, Name the blood something holy, Something mighty Something unlanguangeable Something like the end of the world Name it for the roar between your legs and the women will not be nameless Hear,just bleed anyhow
0
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 10:58 AM UTC
let it bleed
This heartbreak was an incantation, Rumor and influence and imitation. Malevolent power channeled through, Assumptions and lies deftly hewn. Harsh runes gouged into bedrock, Strong shoulders disfigured by stony bulk. Fault lines grinding thoughts to dust, Eldritch-enspelled entropy engraving rust. Mortally wounded by arrival unreported, Time and space...     by distance distorted. Lost and found, wreckage on stormy sea, Seeking our love, stolen in infancy. *
0
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 8:18 AM UTC
Stolen in Infancy
Shell-cased in soft power Arms races Like Carter I break it down harder Than kami wind martyrs With ardor of green cards Discarded In red Apartheids On the rise To Partition again The expendable lives Buying lies as they trend From the ones who pretend Like they too Don’t depend On the never-ending Yellow journalist’s Pen Telling them It means war’s ‘Round the corner Drug store Selling them Echo chambers Of peace and secure Insecurities Dangers and angers And more Of the brink Of extinction Addiction In sync with The small fortune, Scorching-earth Failed-marriage trinket Don’t blink Or it’s on To the next Recrudescence Perplexed By how many world hungers To solve Could be left Since the right In its free-trading slave Not-so hidden agenda Still plots its crop Stockpile Encomienda As super-tiendas Wal off reservation With always low prices Conflating inflation Displacing the plantation Haitian Still shaken By ground-breaking New innovation Starvation And scarce information Pertaining Distorted Contorted, deformed Or just goes unreported For more entertaining Brain-draining discordant Conformists in torrents Stream only the terrorized-truth Water-boarded Reform is aborted The right to choose Thwarted The norm is a misleading, News-feeding Horde I abhor As I’ve poured it out, Sorted out This horrid, sordid crowd Doubting that anything reel Is revealed To be real Or just part of some heartless king’s Artifice Art of the Deal
0
Nov 29, 2019
Nov 29, 2019 at 3:49 PM UTC
Alternative Fact Checks and Balancing Acts
Abandoned, lies a gilded frame Its forged glass guardian now shattered The photo ripped out from its core Family larceny unreported Fraught vestiges of uproar Child's reflections resonate in bath bubbles The drive way desecrated An aimless teddy and a wheelless toy car A photo a souvenir of their time together Entranced in a grounded life boat An anchor now lies detached Ghostly outlines prone on the sandy shore The front door firmly ajar Windows flap in the hostile wind Chimneys spouting fungal spores A back door overlooks an overgrown jungle Disputes never resolved Children like puppets on a tight rope Collateral damage piled high A broken family powerless in lifes high seas
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Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 2:11 PM UTC
Where once a photograph beamed their love, now stands a blank wall
In a world of black and white, they told me to put down my pride so I stood in an alley waiting for my mind to decide. My thoughts were a mess. It wasn't just black and white. Colors were mixing together and it was a beautiful sight. I open my eyes and let them paint the Earth. It was bewitching. They showed me how much mother nature is worth. The world is missing out but I wonder if they can see what I can see. Who would want to ignore this? or did they chose not to pick reality? God created this work of art but it's been scratched by mankind.  No one seems to notice but its not that hard to find. In this colorless world, men can wave hello with blood on their hands. It makes me shiver that people don't know that the color red will always be a part their plans. I will not swallow my pride and pretend that I didn't see the palette they are waiting to use. I'll show the people the shades they tried to hide and power they've abused. He who holds the palette is no artist. Too many strokes of red have been brushed yet the puddles are still left unreported. The man who likes to play God is not to be supported. Spots of red are scattered everywhere. Yet, he chooses to look the other way. He chooses to live in a fool's paradise and it's a price he's willing to pay.
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Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 12:30 AM UTC
Palette
Something in our midst Don't want us to live It's doing everthing in its Power To **** and promote Death. The media shows it Paints the bleakest picture. No wonder Their are suicides No wonder People want to get high No wonder People want to escape When the only future they see Is a Lie. That's what You want, that's Your work: To create despondency, estrangement, dissolution; Create divisions, create rich and poor--- There's a War right away! You've got everyone all over the place, Everyone at variance! That's Your Intention---generating disorder, mayhem, HELL! Never relenting! Forceful through the centuries. But Out there In dystopia Infinite good acts eventuate Unreported, ignored, rarely Brought to light Because The light we live in is darkness, Never To be confused with The Night Sky.
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Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 6:40 PM UTC
Your Intention