I do not know?
Dear Sir,my innocence is gone now, no more fear ,
Do you love to **** me again, I am always here.
I wonder when you taught me how to use a pen,
I was so into you but my ****** was in pain !
I was crying, i was too immature to understand
I was turning only 13, I couldn't feel what happened.
but I promise I never forget what you taught me at the end.
I begged you to stop and I looked into your eyes,
there was a reflection of a cruel world,that what I deserved!
Don't be afraid, mommy never knows what you did,
Nobody knows that you made me bleed.
Dear sir,my innocence is gone with all my tears,
as I had no safe place to hide myself from fears.
Nobody saw anything as your world was blind!
having hidden hatred inside,a virgin died.
Dear sir, time cannot erase your memories,
time doesn't heal all wounds,that you marked,
yes,you took my innocence that will be always on my mind.
Lynette "Squeaky" Fromme,
With Charles Manson did roam.
Tried to assassinate President Ford,
A prison cell was her reward.
It's eleventh day of June, I'm about to celebrate my 18th birthday.
But this morning, I don't wanna go out and face the world.
I'm tired, my Dear Diary... I don't have enough strength to tell them my secrets.
It's you and I who only knew this thing, even mom's not aware of it!
I'm afraid that they may not understand, that they may be wrath or hurt me.
You knew, it's been six years now that we everyday talk about it.
And you're the only one that help me breathe when I suffocate.
Six years of unstoppable nightmare, I still recall.
It was 10:00 PM and mom has gone for a party.
Uncle Joe was left to look after the kids and me.
I woke up when I felt the wind passing through my window.
It's a cold dark night, I tried to shield myself in a blanket.
When suddenly an image of a guy entered in my room.
I closed my eyes so tight,then told myself it's a monster from the dark!
But his footsteps moved towards my bed,until a big hand grabbed my mouth.
I grasp the air then try to shout, aloud but he punched me out.
That was so hurt and caused me weak, until I surrendered to his wrist.
Though weak and helpless I felt the pain...
The deep penetration of his thorn to my flesh.
I was left broken into pieces at my very young age.
The most painful moment when someone broke my life.
A night I couldn't forget 'til today that I've grown.
And this evening, I'll be a princess in a rose pink gown,
The crowd will sure awe while they watch me dance.
I hope I can have the courage to refuse the last hand.
The hand of my step dad who will be my last dance.
I hope I can tell the world that this guy ruined my life.
That he must pay for killing my flesh every night that mom is out!
But today, It's just you and me, my Dear Diary.
Who knew all the secrets and the faith that I achieved.
written: May 12,2014
Entry to: Anne Currin's Dear Diary Poetry Contest
By Angeline Star
The ad stated that
the prospective employee
should have the ability
to prepare and serve food samples
using small appliances such as
microwaves, fryers, skillets, coffee makers
He had a background
She is dancing like a fairy with her long-sequenced gown,
Her long, curly hair swaying as she moves around.
Angels are watching her over the moonlit shadow.
Closed eyes,indulging the melody of playing tunes.
A cavalry came in and run her off on his horse.
Laid her down to a bed of petals and thorns..---
The shadow started to cruise and moan like a beast.
The heaven cries and mourns for a fate she'd faced.
Her limbs are broken and can barely stand on feet.
And the music keeps on playing, swaying her hair in the wind.
A tiny drop of water wake her up from an endless nightmare.
The surge stopped moaning and the dawn break his voice.---
Watching a stranger in a very deep sleep,plan was formed in mind.
Vengeance is on her hands,a blazing anger will next explode.
Looking back is a breathless and bleeding soul.--
She is wearing her torn long-sequenced gown , stood up strong.
Rain fall down and washed blood off her hands.
The music keeps playing, the wind blows and pain has gone.
*AiyaH De Torres
WITH THESE HANDS Free Poetry Contest
and Vestigial Conscience
The sun overshadowing my morality
my self- righteousness eclipsed
Where early mans' dawn is,
Our sun over my left *should* threaten to tinge me if
I pontificate platitudes that fail to connect us to
full stomachs for our children, solid comfort during our elders’ aging and respite needs
That McChrystal was sacrificed at the altar
the way Abraham (*pause) to show faith
O yea, my ancient ancestors from Ireland
Maybe they had roots in Celtic lore
Heralding Beowulf’s heroics
And maybe they had someone in some way connected to
various seafaring warring factions!
Tyranny and takeover spark hatred
blinding rage, like
action- oriented swarming killer bees~
Vestigial, then, is it - our
Weeping flows, but flash floods cannot compare,
and the burn of fury that hot lava
NO! of liquid molten, from the deepest depths of Earth's core -
even that cannot compare
to the condemnation
my foe must assume.
With this pen I secure my conduit to the divine,
My unpretentious foothold here from my pedestal,
My spears are fueled
Ghosts of pharaohs
Branded timeless in stone
Condemning the vilified,
as it is published by
The Royal Geographical Society:
Syria as the Gateway between East and West
The Geographical Journal
Vol. 107, No. 5/6 (May - Jun., 1946), pp. 179-190)
And why shouldn’t this be so?
Beowulf, an earliest epic
Of Old English
How proud and agile to be able
To confer your legacy in written format
Onto your generations and incursions ~
Daughters of the American Revolution,
weren't you early colonists settling in Maryland?
Wasn't The Crown's high noon tea wrought with hypocrisy?
I was wrong when I supposed
McCongress ordered striking the King's son
off the Dollar Menu, To Go,
when they showed up at the
Morocco & France have tensions
today that sprouted around this very topic, you know.
Everyone has to pay attention to who the special children are,
from the special castes - it is written and taught in
children's international fairytales
written by nations collectively-
cultures present their insides
in their telling of morals embellished
inside gripping tales
to their children,
use of cultural symbols and
delectable terms, the signs all
lead directly to the diaper room.
But for this poet, it was the Irish potato famine
forbidding entry into libertine culture.
I put my hands around my wife's throat and I squeezed.
What disturbs me is that when she died, I was pleased.
When it came to having morals, I used to believe that I had some.
But every time I look in the mirror, I'm horrified to see what I've become.
My wife was so mean and she loved to provoke.
Life became intolerable every time she spoke.
She told me over and over how ugly and stupid that I am.
I snapped and killed her and now my soul has been damned.
I want to go to the Cops but they would lock me up for life, I would never again be free.
But that's only if I would get lucky, it's more likely that I would receive the death penalty.
When it came to my problems, she was the source.
If I hadn't snapped, I might have considered divorce.
As each day passed, that witch became even colder.
I'll spend the rest of my days looking over my shoulder.
She was a horrible Human Being and she loved to annoy me.
I'll never stop fearing that the Cops are closing in and that will eventually destroy me.
(This is a fictional poem)