Best Prostituted Poems
The words that follow are not so grand
Because of The Streets on our countries land
By day they are light, lived and free
As night fades they change you'll see
Community spirit grows and sprouts
As the evening draws, neighbourhoods ooze doubts
The person you seen hours before
Is not the person you will come to adore
Gangs pimps in a darkened craze
Can't stand the light in a living way
They need the shadows to hide their souls
To capture the innocent in their putrid folds
Prostituted girls, our sisters and nieces
Become use able pieces
Nephews and sons, given guns
Do a deed and become one
The slime that rule, cowards are they
Hire big boys to do their say
Taken in, by dollars and booze
Where once they were someone
What respect they lose
Why should the neighbourhood
Not be able to roam
In daylight or night
After all it's their home
The scum all around
Should disperse and flee
Out of The Streets
Of our towns and cities
If it's ever a road you have to go down
We should have the right to clear our town
Vigilante or law, what ever to be
Its our right
For The Streets to be free
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/life.php
Categories:
prostituted, death, depression, life, loss,
Form:
Rhyme
The Champion
Controlled by remote desires I trip the laurel fuse of longing ancestry
My Mom had been chosen to compete diving from the high platform of
Hitler’s mania for ‘Kraft’ ‘Freude’ living space terror raised arms and all in
guns blazing a misplaced childhood offered on the altar of manic delusion
Wreaths gathered dust on unmarked graves white crossed monuments
administered torches blazed parades marched lined the ‘Higher Faster
Longer’ ‘More Ideologically Corrupt’ abuse of innocent festival of youth
Replaced demounted sacred Mount Olympus for Auschwitz and Stalingrad
My mother was no Jesse Owens who blackened Nazi dreams of whiter than
white no ‘Black Consciousness Runner’ shoving gloves to the sky in post-fascist
Munich 1972 quite close to Dachau where Jews Sinti and Roma vanished
at the hand of Swastika’s psychopathology for denial distanced denied memory
A colour TV to watch remote from a distance was the closest she ever got to
her dream of honour and glory disgraced by politics assassinated like Israeli
athletes in a continuation and preview of fanatical devilish monsters high and
low jacking innocent sports for propaganda politics malignant ideas and ideals
In 1944 there were no Olympics titanic battles were scrambled instead in
General’s Admiral’s chessboards and tactical blood baths no dives into chlorine
and water just rotting gassed trenches exploding the dreams pawns in the Games
crushing to bone meal the Peace with their tanks and grenades fusing demise
1948 came to London awaking from ruins and rubble and the brain washed
German Olympians were banned from all sports had they not spread eagled
their passion prostituted their vigour for eugenics death Fuehrer and Fatherland
My mother tainted blemished in blood and in water a fallen hero on her sword
09th August
Written for Healing Peace and for the contest 'Olympic Mania'
Categories:
prostituted, abuse, peace, political, war,
Form:
Free verse
So shut up
while I carve out your heart
with this spoon in my hand
'cause now you're mine;
so get over yourself
You priceless prostituted attention seeker
I'll give you want you want
So shut up
Everyone will know you
from the News tomorrow
as the kid with some dreams to follow
who got brutally murdered down
This is what you wanted
So shut up
Let me see those red lips of yours
against the wall
No worries; I'll leave you
after I'm done
laying in a pool of blood all swollen
I gave you what you wanted
So shut the f*ck up
It was your own fault
from the beginning
you just couldn't stop
your ugly red mouth
from blabbering non-stop
All you had to do
was to just shut up
Now I've made you.
You have now shut up.
Categories:
prostituted, deathred,
Form:
A fertile wind lures a petting call
from the bull who will swim the Lough.
Immortality lurks within its perfume
of dynasty and a future king.
The scent of tomorrow makes love extinct
for our genes are perfumed with success.
Prada and Versace can make the lemon sweet
but the offspring will question this statue,
we call David.
Poets will bleed a loves embrace
this beauty of presence a royal write.
While nature spins the spiders web
of a lover who creates life with death.
These tears will soon be forgotten,
in the rose that greets the winter.
For love grows cold in the markets of man.
But love should not be abandoned
for creation is a spiritual thing.
As the warrior holds his head against the tree,
unspoken words transcend this earth
that only his isolation can see.
And in its meaning
love can find a nobility,
that prostitution will never be.
Love was a word that once made empires fall,
now reduced in the confetti of modernisation.
A face book soul caught in the pouting lips
of adolescence,
staring into the depths of an old man unseen.
And the obese teenager that parents adore
go blind to this locked door .
While mirrors delight in snow white dreams
and a wardrobe that secretly desires perversion.
For the window of **** gags for that.
Sex is the ticket to the premiere
that eventually all her friends will see
and the weak will be the spillage
Of a corn sack filled
by a man that only a rapist will see.
Walk into this gas chamber
And succumb to a kiss,
prostituted by a River Island fee
and a Rimmel greasy lipstick.
That makes the suitor hard
inflamed by the chemical caress of perfume
which will procreate another lost child
Into oblivion.
And love will show its face once more
In the bottle of regret
and a being too fat to work.
Spilling the grease from his chips
while watching the latest premiere
Of another adolescent dream
Categories:
prostituted, love,
Form:
Free verse
In his songbook,
are raving songs of beauty,
which thrushes around the phrases of my mind
and embroiders my soul on an errand
into a white night of a white Christmas,
in a white dreamland,
and having sleepless dreams,
and numerous pictures,
which I can’t clearly depict
but I could reminder an auction,
where flood, was sold at a discount
and breath, to the tallest bidder
Therein in,
my late hero brother,
cheerfully sang from his hero’s songbook
and I astonishingly sang along
with a bright smile and cry,
craving for a new hug,
but we could not hug nor shake hands
And he palely said to me,
I am back to stay,
never to leave
But I woke up, to notice it was a white lie,
Why so, my hero brother?
I try to anger in white lightning,
but I notice that my anger is colourless
and my sweat is adourless
I also try to use white magical feelings to give him a hug or bring him back,
but I could not,
because I am not a professional white witch,
My emotions has been white washed,
and I feel like white trash,
because my hero brother has been trash away from me,
by death
I feel like giving up my white ghost,
like a prostituted white slave,
by drinking up a full tank of white spirit liquid,
so I could be on his ream
But my hero brother begged me not to
He consoled me by saying;
that no matter how transparently apart we where,
his soul will never stop blowing the whistle of joy
or flash a white flag in surrender to death
Because his music will never end, nor will his whistle blend,
because the only thing he has freely given to death is a white feather of shame
This filled me will plenty white hope,
I will sob no more!
Because I now know that my hero late brother is a white knight
I will wait for him, in this unlabeled white land
till we meet and share hugs again
Categories:
prostituted, tribute, death, me, brother,
Form:
Epic
Us, we yearn forever hence,
Prostituted souls recognizing her piety,
Though only sold to proper appeal,
Told to those with substance.
Us, we ravage apathy,
His iron bedded helplessness within,
Suppresses volumes of passion,
Oppressive tolerant atrocity.
Us, we enjoy agony,
Her wretched smirk engulfs,
A saddened tiresome reality,
****** of dramatic agelessness.
Us, we acknowledge Dream,
His snatched optimism from worn Was,
Bestowed upon eager Is,
With timed versatility.
Us, the youth
Scream our definition
To Her undefined self,
The World.
Categories:
prostituted, angst,
Form:
Remember to thank the Lord,
for while you lay sheltered in your warm
blankets and stable roof,they lay shivering
blanketed by the harsh winds,sheltered by
what one could ever refer to as home.
As you arise to that warm bath,that hot coffee
and that flavorful mouth watering breakfast
they are listening to the sound of their
growing tummies melodically crying out in hunger
relishing even that bone left over by a dog.
remember to thank the Lord,
for the troublesome child you bore
for their tears have turned to blood,
crying...hoping for their next child to
live longer than a month.
Thank him for the mother in torn clothes
who bore,loved and cared for you
as many lay in streets,bottles
and in graveyards...murdered and
abandoned.
once again,remember to thank the Lord
for the family that nags and shouts
ever so frequently...trying to lead you not
astray while their clothes are stripped
off by their uncles.grandfathers,brothers and
even fathers,
their backs are shredded by never ending
lashes...the brutality of a parent,betrayal
of relatives...the greed for money that ends the life of
a six year old...programming her professionally
for an exploited,drugged prostituted life
So next time you feel your life
a mess,your hair a tangle and shoes
wasted and old
next time you think you are poor
and will be bitter about it
just remember to thank the lord for
you are blessed and they are yet
to be saved!!
Categories:
prostituted, change, faith, religion, drug,
Form:
Blank verse
BAT SONG
(This Song was written in 2009 for a dramatised Rap Music & Dance Group in Rural South Africa. They wanted an amusing song with a message incorporating an unusual rural image. It unfortunately was not performed on stage, but the young teenage group had great fun practicing the drama-song.)
[TWO CHORUSES]
She tried to fly
was too blind
Up she went, fell, fell
flapping webbed wings
in a dirty night
[CHORUS 1
Dark dank night
Not knowing when
not knowing what
Blind bat, bland bat
blank bat]
On electric pylons rested
she was persecuted, prostituted
they stalked her, sallied her
stoned her
in a dirty night
[CHORUS 1
Dark dank night
Not knowing when
not knowing what
Blind bat, bland bat
blank bat]
Sirens screeched, screamed
What are you ?! Who are you ?!
you simpleton sleazy bat
we will slice your wings
in a dirty night
[CHORUS 1
Dark dank night
Not knowing when
not knowing what
Blind bat, bland bat
blank bat]
THEN came beckoning
Bella, Bella, Bella !
abating abating
up on electric bars
a fast bat out of bell
out of bell
not batting a lid
singing batwing
snippets
[CHORUS 2
Velvet night, vortex night
knowing when, knowing what
bold belly bat !
bold belly bat ! ]
No fear she fluttered and flew
I’m flaunting soaring strange
no slicing webbed wings ordained
me no belittling blind
crazy as a dime
[CHORUS 2
Velvet night, vortex night
knowing when, knowing what
bold belly bat !
bold belly bat ! ]
A scavenger slunk away
sirens slipped into sewers
cities in distress
raised up their brows at
beckoning bats doing
a bogey woogy
doing a bogey woogy
a batty bogey woogy
[CHORUS 2
Velvet night, vortex night
knowing when, knowing what
bold belly bat !
bold belly bat ! ]
©GhairoDanielsPoetry
&Song2009
Categories:
prostituted, 12th grade, africa, color,
Form:
Alliteration
A fallen villain;
Slayer of the innocent and lover of pain;
A gifted mystic who prostituted the endowments of Nature,
And thus drunk her cup of fury with mysterious pleasure.
Sharks found a rare meal of flesh and blood
That they would not have had,
Thanks to the seasond American commandos
Who supplied so full its dose.
With a huge sigh I mark your simple end,
And still mourn your complex trend
That maimed bouyant lives of both young and old.
Some you may meet in hell and seek revenge hundredfold;
Others yet shall forgive you as they dine in paradise.
My condemning cry does now rise:
May Satan, your treacherous mate,
Scold your brow with utmost hate,
For he has no ally when his mission's done;
Let him torch your groins and your hairs burn!
Categories:
prostituted, sorry
Form:
Rhyme
You said women were worthless.
They never mind their business.
They never know their place.
If it weren’t for Eve, Adam wouldn’t have fell from grace.
You said they were a waste of air.
They should only be used to bare.
You said they were Satan’s seed.
Well dad, what about me!
You prostituted yourself out.
You took our food money and made us do with out.
You had to have your drink.
You say we are the reason you sink.
You say us kids hold you back.
So much in life you lack.
You just want to be free.
Well dad, what about me!
You do things you don’t remember.
You leave us in the cold and let us shiver.
You would love with you hand.
You would come back with out your wedding band.
You make mom cry when you can.
I was so easy to ignore.
You walked out the door.
You said you didn’t love us anymore.
This is where you never wanted to be.
Well dad, what about me!
What about me!
Did you ever ask me?
Categories:
prostituted, father, introspection, life, loss,
Form:
Imagination is the river
that guides the quill.
Dreams the sailing ship
that unleashes the voyage
through the pages of
a poets mind.
To write is to find
the meaning of love.
Where beauty opens the gate,
to a never ending yellow brick road
Of human emotion.
for that is what we seek
The pen can create gods
and mortal frailty.
Sunshine is the span of life,
the darkness is forever
and within these letters
we find immortality.
The candle burns when sanity sleeps
authors are laid fallow
when the desert refuses to create.
Scribbling among the midnight ghouls
caught in the faith of their conviction.
Love is the demon when curtains close
and the rose a symbol
Of what might have been.
Whiskey is the oil for some
that guides the brush.
For love is their canvass,
the bleeding soul their paint
and only the heart knows
the colour of these falling tears.
For when the bottle is empty
when the heart can take no more.
Our soul bleeds over the page
solace comes from tomorrow
and our insanity will take its place
Beauty is found in pain
hope is an emerald sea,
envy comes from Oscar’s words
and belief becomes a prejudice.
The pen will drown your epitaph
for the Cyclops knows his destiny
The poets of the world
so sweet is your fruit.
yet you remain anonymous
for life is but a dream.
Words are a jigsaw of fears,
a confession trapped
in the confetti of poems
Which you shout to the world
all judged in the courts of obscurity.
The book is now written
all have prostituted their existence
the devil has been cleansed
This sweet apple has been examined
The fruit has turned into despair.
Whiskey has turned to wine
the ark of life belongs to silence,
this gallery has no visitors.
So stay drunk in your bed tonight
Words are best left in dreams
and be glad that your life
will dissolve into obscurity.
These are the final words of life,
for the poet has no such luxury
our pain is for all to see.
Categories:
prostituted, art, beauty, dark, heart,
Form:
Free verse
Crucibles of tattered thorns intrests silenece of feverish scorns. Watered down rivers of loosely washed words woven which wander for weakening tranquility. Cascading into the pantheon of precipitating poet promises never finding grounds of solidity. Promises broken. Eternally the immortal sand is sieved. Roots find no hold. Blushes exchanged for the loss of words sanity, comprehending not, that which is bearing no fruit. Sighs afloat on blooms of brushed breezes blowing through the mind with a feverish pitch. A change of key the notes deafen the heart. Disturbing thoughts portrayed in the eye of ones mind as hellish scapes of monotonous crimes fill the heart of the humbled head. There is no going back. Destroyed works of slumbered art wither to rushing waters of wounded love. I have lost hope. Isolated secrets swim in a lot of desturbed lies which wicked deeds do not appease. No Comfort for the diseased works belated in times gone past. She has lied. Folly her actions be, raping the indicitive spirit that once beheld my being. The mirror unjustly blames me. And it curses the sight of thine eyes. She belittles me in tongues of foreign descent. My mind is slipping. Shadows now light the difference uncertain. The world seems a shallow place and I reside in a plethora of painful pins poking at my prostituted passions. I draw ever near the cliff that quickens my arrival. Struck out is the marrow from my bones nothing of substance can reside within. Hollow is the vessel quandering it's own demise. Mind in a fog I sit at the window, staring at life that no longer contemplates meaning in the grand hall of the emptiness were I once dwelled. Searching for importance in my soul in nothing but darkness. If the reaper comes tonight I care not. Why must I reap what she has sown? No reason for questions, I no longer care. Forgive me all I wish is to be whole agin and remove the pins from my distraught impovereshed personality. Slowly life returns. But my mind remains broken.
Categories:
prostituted, lost love, recovery from...,
Form:
Blank verse
You say I'm a whore, father
But who created me?
You say I'm a prostitute to society
But who prostituted me?
You say I'm a perversion of beauty, father
But who perverted me?
You say I aborted your love, father
But who aborted me?
you say there's a darkness behind my eyes
But who placed the darkness there?
You say my heart is rotten, father
But who placed the worm in it's core?
You say you fear me, this demon in my soul
But who instilled this hate, who set the demon free?
You turned your back on me, father
for fear of catching this infection
But father, oh daddy dearest, who infected me?
Can you undo what you have done, daddy
Or must I do it for you?
Categories:
prostituted, father, fear,
Form:
Free verse
American fawning pawn
wearing a king crown
How far down will you bow
to the Kremlin ground?
Peppermint kisses of appeasement
suit your licorice lips well
Shameless nude tongue abasement ...
snuggle close
to the Siberian imperial Impale
cloaked veil
Democracy pierced to the heart,
sold as a whore
for a few rubles more
Czar tissue formed on the orifice of freedom violation
Lady Liberty given over to suffer
vile degradation
by a leader butt bent and subservient
National security compromised —
prostituted for a marquee name display
Such servile, covetous billing ...
what price will Democracy pay
for the Gulag trick lay?
Adopted Cossack son,
holding the cipher keys to the kingdom,
stay bastardly submissive loyal
to your KGB domineering spy master
Getting a perverse thrill
when you hear the citizen cries
from the repeated dictatorial violations
Constitution issue gets no pardon —
Ruble khan decree:
execute the Little Caesar executive decision
Once the new czar tissue hardens,
how fast will the tyranny disease spread
from the lip dysentery infection transmission?
Categories:
prostituted, allusion, metaphor, political, truth,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
Soul of Beauty
Through the dirt and grime of centuries
Bloody carnage of hate and fickle fate
In mediocre destinies
With shattered and reviled dreams
It came creeping
From the tears of lovers
Left to weep with graves
From the stories and legends
Of hearts bitter revenge
Struggling to rise
Floating in the carbon toxic
And the filth of monoxide stench
Rallying with the scream of cinder burnt
Atomic rising sun wastelands
Ever straining
Cringing and cowering by pilloried hands
Slapped back to the slavery
The chains of abuse still hanging
Bare and bleeding their spiritual noose
It lifted up
In wretched and ravaged cries of torture
The prostituted life of raped soul
In the stinking and festering pits
In concrete caves of darkest eyes
A quiet cry
With misguided faith
And fear filled thoughts
With the drudgery of time
And its wasted philosophies come to nought
To be recognised
All terror and anguish
Delivered to a single inescapable point
Of useless and overburdened hope
To heavens repentant angel of death
And be free
Trammelled by its own steel shod hypocrisy
Flayed by its lies and deceit
Whipped to the post of progress
And entertainments release
At last released
With a felon grin
And wrenching sadness
Pleading eyes
And with wistful smiles
It came creeping
Struggling to rise
Ever straining
It lifted up
A quiet cry
To be recognised
And be free
At last released
The soul of beauty
The heart of mankind
The spirit of love
Categories:
prostituted, hope
Form:
Free verse