Best Molesting Poems
**Back smile/smile Back **
With your heads way up your :]ssa[:
You will never accomplish the win
I got shots that will protect me from your rabid ways
After you fell into a non-stop falling disease,
Your movements weakened
Straight from a dried up well,
Every day you frolic in a disorder that causes more brain damage
With progressive mental retardation
You continue to lick the top of your cleft lips
He is the saddest sadist human that ever lived!
So sad he has to live with himself every night
Kissing his young ones Goodnight
In ways I can't even breathe to tell
The way he follows rabbits down the bunny hole
Killing each laughing hare
Wiping smiles, leaning in,
The madness in Alice's Wonderland
Madder and Madder The Hatter
Revealing
Your boldness is nothing more than baldness
A man in a monkey suit
Molesting the minds of his idiotic circle,
Trying to kill the joy, not knowing
We don't care about his false Harvard WAY
I rather stay here dropping out, than pretending
Following his made-up perception, a cropped out waste
His taste, my best copypaste, he jacked on
A stench, they left behind when open mouths laugh
He educates by attacking women better than his own
Silently to the top of his knife, he stalks nakedly
Removing a few poems he plagiarized
His Poorness, brought many to donate to the salvation of his army
Sadness Delivered by the Joy Killing Poet and his little pigs
Cross My heart and hope to die!!!
~SKAT~
Pinhead Lizard
Ever since he was a young boy
He played with balls of fire
From church halls to Soho brothels
He must have had them all
Aint seen nothing like this pinhead
In any amusement hall
That deaf, dumb and dumber kid
Sure plays a mean ol shtick
He weeps at mother Mary’s feet
Becomes part of the molesting dream
Feeling proud at his insulting whit
This Pinhead lizard
Sure is a wee wee twit
The gods looks down in smite and anger
That deaf, dumb and dumber kid
Sure plays a mean mean shtick
He’s a pinhead lizard
Maybe he’s drunk and very pissed
That pinhead lizard sure has a mean twist
How do you think he justifies
God sure hasn’t got a clue
What makes him an evil lizard?
Should have made him into a shoe
Aint got no education
Can’t bear the voices of reason
Don’t see no lights bulbs in that ones head
Makes no sense, but tosses insults like stale bread
He thought he was the charmer
He’s just a pinhead lizard with no crown
Ever since he was young boy
That lizard never grew up
He defames Jesus and preaches
Are all the lizards this lame?
He has his flip flop slippers
No wonder he always falls
Never failing to de-fame
He’s a pinhead lizard
Maybe he’s drunk and very pissed
That pinhead lizard sure has a mean mean twist
Written Sep 14, 2001 Parody on the song Pinball Wizard and a video game at the time!
There's a gonna be a crimson moon tomorrow night...
Me and Delroy, heading down Witcher at half past midnight. Our destination: Witcher Redemption Church of Christ. It's been pouring like crazy since ten. Lightning streaks are giving the church steeple with its twenty foot cross an eerie aura, as rumbling thunder shakes the ground beneath our feet.
Fueled by a bottle of Jack shared and a hatred for the evil that has taken place here, our intent is to burn this unholy building to the ground. Two bricks and two molotovs hurled at and through the stained glass windows should do the trick.
Just last week ol' Rev King was convicted of molesting three underage girls over the past twenty years. To think that he stood on that pulpit preaching fire and brimstone at us turns my stomach. It was Del who suggested we torch the place, his sister was one of the victims.
It's now 12:59 am. The rain has slowed. My heart is pounding in my ears between roars of thunder. On the count of three we take our vengeance.
One...
Two...
Three...
Crash Crash! Windows successfully busted. Molotov cocktails lit and hurled on target. Flames rising. Victory!
But wait! Silhouettes approaching from the woods just beyond. Suddenly, a lightning flash. Three, no, four black bears loping toward us at great speed. Our demise, imminent. Our destiny, sealed. My only thought now is this: What horrid twist of fate has led to this judgment? O GOD, PLEASE HELP US...
twisted happenings
mothers of the disappeared weep
baptisms delayed
* Poem/story inspired by a road and church I passed recently and the television series Zoo. Also a nod to a U2 song. Events are fictional.
The black-as-widow’s-weeds night of endless stars
was so cold...
cruel as temperature
plunged its frigid fingers feeling through my being
fondling my heart and soul without mercy
molesting me - taunting my will to live
and just when I thought
the ice water in my shivering veins would kill me
there she was
she came shyly at first
demurely spreading
her pinkening skirts over the horizon
while her blushing complexion
deftly gelded the darkness
I prayed-I pleaded-I made deals
(with who? you don’t want to know..)
that her warming smile would be my saving grace…
It began to slowly dawn on me
as she flexed her sinewy heat waves
flaunting her solar power
that I was caught
between false hope and no deliverance
for the desert sunrise-to-sunset
now faced-off and challenged me
with barren bone-dry intensity
sucking dry the new dew
and any life
containing moisture
weathered granular remains
of ancient feldspar and quartz
with eons of sifting and shifting boredom
took on a hell-raising life of their own
as the fire-breathing celestial sorceress casted spells
of smoke and mirror mirages
and magically made ridges of rippling blond sands
glisten like scales of a million skimming sidewinders
writhing in joy at my agony—
it’s amazing
how cold I feel when I have been so burned
again I face a desolate night
— deserted —
without a blanket
Susan Ashley
April 29, 2018
Widow’s Weeds: For women of 19th century England, a custom of mourning that involved wearing heavy, concealing, black clothing and the use of heavy veils of black crepe. The entire ensemble was colloquially known as ‘widow’s weeds’.
Mourning - Wikipedia
Since Ron Reagan, the world’s been
tariffing us near to death
Our manufacturing base vanished,
off to Communist China, or down to greedy Mexico
Not that we raised a hand to stop those who left
or, God forbid, offended the countries who committed theft
And now that we have a President who is racing
24/7, non-stop, to rescue our country
All the ‘polite people’ are out protesting:
There ‘he’ goes, offending Mexico, China, India, S. Korea
the very countries guilty of economic molesting…
And they, the ‘polite people,’ tank the market out of fear
-- Trump didn’t make them sell-off, ya hear?!
And when he deports gang members from Venezuela
or radical Islamists on ‘student visas’
The shouting, the screaming, from academia’s useless idiots
only increases
So, here’s a prayer for President Trump
that he can overcome the opposition
and get America over the hump
back to where we belong --
leading the free world
~ at the top of the bump
I believe that at first
I had a thirst for word
As a child I’d create my own style
And make up words to popular songs
Especially when I wanted to sing along
But did not have the vocabulary at age two
By age six I was full of poetic bliss
But only pounding keys on my toy piano
Shouting made up songs as I’d go
Then on a whim of destiny
I became a victim of rape
But I had no word for it
I truly didn’t know what to say
I didn’t understand at age six
That it was a teen and I was just a kid
I saw blood and thought the cool aide
I drank had simply leaked from me
The pain and shame was like a bad dream
But I did not despair for music was there
Then at age seven ironically
A family member, my father began molesting me
This time after years I did speak
To my sixth grade teacher who intervened
But before I could find a way to tell
I used poetry and journalism to excel
My writing was not really the best
But it saved me non the less
So for me music and poetry
Are at the core of my salvation my peace
Years of fears tears and therapy
I am healed and better for it all
Thanks to God and a teacher
Who inspired me to talk.
Slain without swords they are
Though the airy wordly air
They inhale yet in graceless lack
Behold in the colony of wretchedness
Naked children begging alms
From brothers-not brothers
See as flies soar above sores
On their broken soles pus to lick
From the leaking flesh of starving souls
Don't their ribs tell the origin of bones?
Aren't worms molesting their intestines?
Don't they a place share in the supreme likeness?
Deserted cold gutter-side is their safe haven at night
And without meals they exit in multiple batches
To account for the trilemma of their ragged souls
In his tiny eyes,
I saw a little glance of life,
His innocent face reflects his poverty,
As he was facing a great storm in himself,
His gloomy voice telling me a legend of his broken dreams,
He was too small for that school,
A little mechanic with a bag of tool,
His childhood spending along,
Playing with screw driver and handsaw,
The sun molesting him through his light,
Abusive language incises his feelings of delight,
Brow beating by his cruel master,
He was too small for that disaster,
A little mechanic with a lots of fears,
Every evening my bus was passing near his workshop,
I saw him and he smiles as he was happy with his life,
Besides his beautiful smile,
i was reading his griefs file,
Too many desires alive,
How much he was brave,
Changes his face like a wave,
May God help him and Save,
I pray for him everyday,
He was too small for that aim,
A little mechanic with a strong faith,
Pondering about my existence lying here staring at the ceiling the reality of my presence.
I am dead walking upon the living.
Everyone that has enter my life made promises to love me,
Each promise that was broken took a piece of life from me.
They say we live in the land of the free,
But in this world everything has a price and nothing is free.
People use and abuse you throw you away when they no longer have use for you.
Life has taken my happiness all that is left is sadness.
I walk with the living like nothing has happen, but the universe knows everyone that’s crooked.
The molesting priests the liars, the untrustworthy thieves, murders in solitary.
We all are dead, and they walk this earth right along with me.
To be alive but non-existing, to see the same faces everyday but not speaking.
Having to be touched with no emotion, I am emotionally exhausted shallow exhaling.
Suffocating in silence as I walk through the crowded streets,
No one sees the decay, but me.
Swallow up with misery dehydrates me, and thirsty for the living to notice me.
I walk upon the living sluggish as if I was a fixture of an unfinished piece of equipment.
Footsteps left of evidence that I was here.
No one will notice because no one cares.
I am in limbo death of an unbaptized infant a lifetime of darkness.
Cursed by evil parents’ leaves me damage, I am alive but no longer living.
Condemn to eternal punishment, as my heart at rest I confess I been walking dead.
I am an observer even a spectator feeling like a human gallbladder there but not needed.
A musical instrument with no sound vibrations: a guitar with broken strings playing a silent harmony.
One beautiful blank canvas I am Picasso with no paintings.
A negative that will never be seen I am a photograph without developing.
I am physically walking among the living, and I am not even breathing.
Until I lay in my grave everything will remain the same.
When I am called to those pearly gates I will finely find happiness,
And no longer be walking dead upon the living.
As I leave my footsteps behind me, death walks as a passenger besides me.
BBC News Alert
Somewhere in France
In the Countryside
A farmer has been arrested
For molesting an old cow
A drunken old hag was on all fours
Crawling around in his field
He, having had his wine and baguette
Thought he had forgotten one cow
Off he went to fondle and milk her ****
Turned out they were as dry as prunes
The cow in English barked; get your hands off of me
To which the pour farmer replied in absolute shock
Merde! Why you cow who barks, you speak English!
How can this be?
She replied I am not a cow you blind old farmer
I am a mooing poet of sorts
I dropped my dictionary in some cow dun here
Can’t seem to tell the difference between the two
I understand replied the farmer
Like me looking at you and a cow
Was very confusing indeed
Well I shall take me leave you old blind fart
The farmer snorted
Let me cut the fence open for you
She crawled back onto the road
Whereby the farmer was arrested
(Alsace has left wing laws it seems)
For letting his cow wander
Upon the intellectual property
Of France
I have spent my entire life searching for answers
for questions that have no answers it seems
like, where is my place
in this existence (I have been on a journey with no destination)
I think my compass needs an adjustment
so I can at last find my true north
the places I have been are like cities on a map
some nice and some just awful
and in my head are monsters (just lurking and waiting)
for when I am off guard to creep
inside my thoughts with painful memories from the past
like, my uncle molesting me at nine (hashtagmetoo)-
or my dead cat limp in my arms (oh go away)
back to the darkest realms of my mind
(oh even the death of each beloved in technicolor
and detail) I am just a hopeless traveler out of control
seeking those peaceful meadows of life
and each day I battle shadows
from my past (my days spent on a wobbly bridge)
as I try to cross the deep swamp of life . . .
each day, I am a warrior seeking my true north
ready to battle any creature from my past
all the goblins hiding but by now I am a warrior trained
and I will and I can . . .'cause I am a survivor
______________________________
January 10, 2018
Poetry/Narrative/'cause I'm a survivor
Copyright Protected, ID 18-9815-65
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Speak Your Truth
sponsor, Madison Demetros
Fifth Place
Why do you use sex as a control weapon?
You pretend to not know that we need it.
The monster must be alleviated, released.
We get sex when we get a promotion,
or our birthday or when we buy you a gift.
What greed is that?
Can you even have a real ******? Or faking it?
We know you have one when you do our best friend!
You ignore that in all of history we have owned you!
And now you are free, free to use it to control us.
And when we cheat, you feel so betrayed.
Anger that we were stupid enough
To commit to you for life,
When we didn’t know that you were so ungiving,
To care about our sexual needs.
You expect us to control it, are you stupid? Naïve?
Men are molesting children: their own children, because of women like you!
I know, because most of the women I have dated were abused by their own fathers.
The best we could hope for is that they only cheat with another adult.
Why are these women staying with men that abused their own daughters?
This has got to STOP.
These lies must STOP.
Cutting our foreskin does not stop us from masturbating, or needing!
Grahame Crackers are useless. Other men, Craigslist, Bathrooms, YMCA!
Men are becoming gay, roleplaying the fantasies of their oppressed mothers.
Spank me daddy! Whose your daddy? Make me do it!
We men are having a hard time transitioning into the freedoms you have!
Look at history or the rural Muslims killing their wives or the Africans cutting off the ********.
This issue is tearing humanity apart!
All the divorces, are because of you not servicing your man.
He would never hurt you or leave you if he was satisfied sexually!
This means you have to exercise and stay fit for him to be proud of his mate!
So if you gain weight and not care for his pride: You are the abuser!
Milk your husbands, or they will find someone else too.
All because you are so self-centered, lazy, and greedy for power.
So whose your daddy? I AM,
Form:
Hear me.
Please listen.
My little squeaks mean something.
Help me.
I can’t.
This pain is molesting my spirit.
Is it
worth it?
Should I leave everything behind and just “poof” away?
Please try to
Help me.
My physical appearance is starting to fatigue.
Save me.
Talk to the Dead
When you talk to the dead,
They give you advice,
Buzz on your finger,
lightly touch once or twice,
I told Trish about dead Joan's Goldfish,
In her fish pond swimming pool,
When a loud voice said this,(to Trish)
They're bloody Koi not Goldfish,
You silly bloody fool,
Trish and Joan looked much alike,
And sounded alike,same voice too,
Same giggle and sense of humour,
Two parts of one soul connection,
Perhaps this is true?
And one nursed the other before her death?
After Sue died in April 2015,
she jumped in my body too,
And I felt as sick as a dying dog,
Till she jumped right out too true,
Later without her deathly illness,
It was ok for her to,
Jump into my body,
Possession is OK blue,
Sometimes a concept arrives in your head,
The impulse to drive a different road Instead,
Check out my old house Suey did say,
When I drove past house had gone away,
The point of her contact a thread,
You must ask a question,
An answer to get,
Cos they need an invite,
Then words you will get,
Though some of the buggers ain't nice.
Don Johnson
Guess I was blest with the seeing,
At 4 me Kero fridge just went Om Om Om,
The shutter in me head clicked open,
And a room full of Greys. Frowned upon,
Boogie man was I a seeing,
Grumpy Greys round my bed stayed too long,
Unfriendly grey men came at night not no friends,
Till I clicked the door shut, no more Greys in the hut,
Yes bugger off Grays don't belong.
Suey and I had long discussions about possession, and she said she wanted to jump inside me. After her death she did as in the top above poem.
A day before she died in my arms, we were joking about my Granny not paying back a loan . Sue spoke sternly to Grandma and I saw her face above my bed
Grandma was crying and begged my forgiveness, of course I forgave her.
Insight to the other side.
I asked Sue how old she was now,
She said I'm 10 and am confronting child molesting Grandpa
Also confronting her Father for doing nothing about it.
Seems you get to bring justice on the other side of the veil,
And possibly decide the punishment when baby's are Constantly reborn in the Earth, just doing your time, in little Hell Earth.
The time and the place what your worth,
Crisp winter red rose; moistened by snowflake;
The frosted grass on a winter morning;
A moonlit sky with sweet stars adorning;
And Autumn trees, held alive by the rake.
Two sweet, old lovers, sat on a park bench;
Sat hand in hand for sixty-something years;
Loving still, through heartbreak; turmoil and tears;
The sorrow never weakening that clench.
The words on a page, winding and weaving;
Attacking our minds and breaking our hearts;
Molesting our senses like sharpened darts;
And disproving "seeing is believing".
Though none of these are aware of their bliss;
Nor have knowledge why they are beautiful;
Just like you they make me feel dutiful;
To hold and to love; to kiss and to miss.