Best Sluts Poems
The Punching Bag - Through the Eyes of a Child
Each day the pattern was the same,
for all Dad’s shortcomings, my Mom got the blame.
WHACK! He cursed her for all his lost dreams…
WHACK! For missed opportunities, and failed schemes.
WHACK! Dad would hit his punching bag again,
to release all his pent-up frustration and pain.
When he felt inadequate and couldn’t cope with life,
he resorted to battering Mom, his “beloved” wife.
Of course, it was always her fault that things were bad;
so he made her suffer for all the troubles he had.
Inflicting her with insults, black-eyes, concussions, and cuts,
he claimed that she deserved them because she was like all sluts.
Craftily he played on her bully-enforced meekness,
getting down on his knees to beg for her forgiveness.
Moods swinging like a pendulum from night to day,
his promises were empty - he would never change his vile ways.
Predictably, he continued to torment her as he pleased,
degrading and abusing her…he never ceased.
He figured low self-esteem would prevent Mom from leaving;
and that she was a nobody, he really had her believing.
He was oh so convinced that needed audacity she lacked,
to ever think of opposing him, or of fighting him back.
Besides, with no family around, no job, and no dough,
he smugly concluded that she had no place else to go.
God knows she was weary of existing in this hell on earth;
and I was tired of seeing her endure all that unbearable hurt.
I had had enough of being terrified by that despicable monster,
who had ruined her and made our lives an utter disaster.
After convincing Mom that inevitably I’d suffer the same fate,
one night, we finally escaped to a shelter before it was too late.
*** Note: Thank God, nothing like this ever happened to me. But this piece is dedicated to those many women and their children who are victims of domestic violence.
08-31-2015
Contest: Through the Eyes of a Child
Sponsor:
Placement: 2nd
I don’t need love in my life
Couples say they can’t live without each other
Does that mean that they will never have a life
No life because of one stupid guy, or a stupid girl
All men want to do is treat the women like sluts
All women care about is if a man can handle their dramatic ********.
That is not real love
If thats not real love then what is?!
Everyday feels like a fairytale
Couples feel like Romeo and Juliet
What love is doing is causing sorrow
If we all know that soon that person will leave us
We all know that deep in our hearts we will fail love because we are abusing it too much
Or maybe love is abusing us.
Whatever this “love” is doing I do not want to be apart of it
The only thing that can make me happy is friends and family
The only person that can make me happy is me
I do not need that love
The only love is there is me.
At McRonald's, you get what you order,
McVirgin burgers from someone's daughter,
Sluts just wanna have fun,
In a sesame seed bun!
Do you want any French fries?
Have some fertilisers and pesticides!
We're not selling these apple pies,
Because we really love you, guys,
Here, more landfill and sulphate dioxides,
Have a nice day today,
Anyone for take away?
All in a plastic sesame bun,
Yum! Yum! Yum! Yum!
Here comes that old double standard again
that will forever separate women from men.
When a man has a lot of sexual partners, he's called a stud.
When a woman has a lot of sexual partners, she's called a ****,
but I believe that I've discovered the source of the problem.
The only ones calling sexually free women "sluts" are other women.
Men would never call them "sluts". Men would just call them.
A **** can be pretty and funny and smart.
She can lift all of your thoughts from your ***** straight to your heart.
She can talk about science, music, or art.
She can put you together but also rip you apart,
so don't trust these sluts, no don't you dare.
They'll force you to trust them and love them and care,
and then she'll be gone, and then you'll be aware
of that hole in your heart that that dumb **** left there.
Nickels or pennies, dollars or pounds,
Feed those machines, can you hear your heart pound?
Spinning and winning drawing you in,
Feeding a frenzy before you begin.
One dollar here, a few hundred pounds
Soon you are dragged in, about to go down.
It’s an addiction feeding those sluts,
no use complaining or spilling your guts.
It's exhilarating hearing the sound, of yet one more silly bonus round.
Yet still, we sit on that comfy chair, often we utter an earnest silent prayer.
God does not listen to those wishing prayers for a game to land often and pay us again.
Spinning we do each and every day, no matter the promise
We can’t stay away.
The reels are illusions, to make us forget, it is our hard earned money we sit here and bet.
We are all losers, sitting on chairs, feeding a frenzy, a re-trigger to get
What is it really, why do we bet?
A bonus round comes, excited we sit, to collect a few pennies after hundreds were spent
Slots are ruthless a sure way to lose, some are addicted, to heroin and booze.
Off to the tables for a bit of fun, that is like holding a loaded gun,
Spin the roulette, and hope for your number,
See your bank balance soon go under.
Go to Black Jack think to count,
they are not stupid, they have covered the shoe,
No chance of winning whatever you do.
But it does not matter we say to ourselves… when in denial you cannot quit, you often hear people begging for a few quid.
I like to gamble, really I do, control is not easy when an addiction is true.
Do not let gambling take over your life, you may end up losing yourself and your wife.
It is not funny, nor is it unreal, that powerful addiction we have for the reel.
Some weekends I lose thousands a night, that does not scare me nor give me a fright. That is the addict's plight.
What You Get Free From Wal-Mart
By Elton Camp
Once you had to pay to see the freak show
Now enjoy it free when to Wal-Mart you go
The fat lady is longer found only at a fair
Go to Wal-Mart and she will be there
Likewise for the Wild Man from Borneo
At Wal-Mart he is anytime that you go
To the cooch show you once paid admission
In Wal-Mart, the sluts are on free exhibition
Many customers will range from X to PG
Shop at Wal-Mart and see it all for free
Woman!
Today is your day
Our day
But so too should be everyday
We celebrate our beings
Our Mothers ago
However...
Will our children celebrate
Us in years also
Woman!
Loose yourself !
Unshackle your chains
Take these labels from your package
Skanks! Hoes! *****es! Sluts!
Replace with
Ladies! Queens! Mothers! Leaders!
Strength!
You are mothers of nations
Teach your children well
You hold the backs of your men
When their burdens are too much to bare
Still...
You carry your own
You cry the tears of your nation
While you hold the world in your hands
You trodd the parched earth with bare feet
Seeking water from the river of knowledge
So your offsprings may drink their fill
From the swell of your breasts!
Woman!
Put your clothes on!
Cover your temples!
Let he who wants to find your scriptures
Search through your pages for the reveal
Keep him reading through your book
Let him prove himself
Before you show him what he desires to see!
Stately! Walk Stately!
Nature should bow at your very feet!
Proudly! Stand Proudly!
Love your every being
Lift yourself for all the world to see
Woman!
Yes you, woman!
Today is your day
Our day
Make it be everyday!
I wrote a few beautiful poems for the happy birds,
For the women that I love, for the embroidered skirts,
For the smile of the flowers, for the sensuous shirts,
For the autumn leaves, for the angels with the highest standards,
For the hot panties, for the Pillsbury butts,
For the innocent centerfolds, for the virgin sluts,
For the kinky hair, for the blonde pony tails,
For the lonely star models, for the fashioned nails,
For the sweet pinky tongues, for the brunette bows,
For the see-through thongs, and for the summer rainbows.
I wrote for the battered single mothers,
For the women in love, for the sad swingers,
For the newlyweds, for the passionate couple,
And for the loners who got beat by the corporal.
But I'm still not a Poet; I am simply a desperate lover,
Who likes to tell it like it is. I like to display my mirror,
And open my heart to the world, so everyone can see their soul.
I am a dreamer, a realist, and an optimist that nobody can control.
For the women that I've loved, I thank you for the sweet memories;
For the hot panties, I am not blind; I thank you for the cheese;
For the sweet pinky tongues, I am not drunk; I thank you for the honey;
The summer rainbows brought me hope, peace, diversity and honesty.
Hebert Logerie Wednesday, October 22, 2014
*The Boy Who cried German*
Although Ikeh was as nervous as ever he still gathered a little guts to address those sluts. He always did walk around in a jumpsuit like that suitor who visits Bisi everyday. His Igbo accent flourished with pidgin diminishes his English when ever he spoke giving room for the linguist in our school to use as a case study when talking of mother tongue nonsense.
His fanta face and coca-cola leg mama Nkechi describes as a factory error of the producers of caro white. That bow leg of his Malam Audu mai shayi laughs at privately but still hails him as the next Ahmad Musa. Even the father of raggae Bob Marley would have given him an award if still breathing, he always allowed the brown village dust to cover it giving room for lace n dandruff. What of his lips? Forget about its tattered looks, the village girls gossip saying his girlfriend must be crazy to kiss those, its huge structure like the camels in the movie "The Mummy"
Yes! His girlfriend Franklin
Only God knows where she got that name from. By birth her mama n papa called her Omoshewa Ajoke Babatunde but ever since she visited the city on her arrival changing everything concerning her heritage but that fool forgot to remove her Yoruba tongue always putting a "H" in place of an "A" she loudly calls "Abigail" "Habigail" or "Again" as " Hegain"
A perfect with him.
Alas!
He dressed in an America suit trying to adjust the tie he never wore, his huge feet in a rubber sandals trying to have mutual understanding with the rough village sands using his handkerchief to wipe the excess dust the white men vehicles left behind. His nose like the back of papa Michael 190 showcasing his mighty nostrils like the twins well beside Adaobi's house. He waved at the passersby to show he just brushed his brown dirty teeth.
Now in the podium I sighted Ikeh talking with Albert the German. The microphone was now handed to him
"Oh Lord" I said closing my eyes because I know he will make a mess of the presentation bringing room to the downgrading of our village. Then in seconds my heart sank on hearing his German English. The crowd in amusement
*So Ikeh can speak English fluently?*
I can converse with you, apostrophé,
for you see we both plot to hide the key
ingredients in a relationship,
when you are used, certain letters are skipped.
There are times I feel I am in the dark,
like, when I get used to seeing your mark,
making a word not really a word, see,
just like I'm not who I'm supposed to be.
An inverted slant is all that you are,
you make a word obscene, give it a scar,
gullible patrons of the written word,
don't stop to think that you might be absurd.
Ah, but we are kinsman, that is a fact,
look at me, you only see the abstract.
I'm saying we are both fraudulent sluts,
subtracting our total, we are just mutts.
Rogues that we are, we're not unlike the rest,
giving the world something for them to guess.
You and your inverted slant, gives you style,
like you, I hide parts of me with a smile.
We are lost cities finding reasons
to join our broken aspirations together,
a lost elegies uprooting tubers of yam planted by our forebearers,
dreams seeking for home and abode to abide by in the nexus of classism.
We've missed the track created by our ancestral ancestors in the dark days.
now, the light created by modernity hurt and hunt us through shame.
We keep running into the dire shadows,
Into hollowness, into races that named us betrayals & nothingness.
Race that track down our throats into splitting emptiness and sagging lips.
We lost between thigh of a lady,
Through the celestial eyes of women,
In between fingers of Delilah's make up.
Our name reek of bottles of wants and needs,
Our shadow duplicated in the thought of lost temples.
We printed the map of our cities in our mind eyes,
We foresee the routes of our helmet but we could not trace the fragment of it.
Home is the passport of dignitaries of righteousness and holiness.
Our kind minds the animation of this movie called life.
But the thoughts of leaving our shadows
To places where survival and existence
Are two starved fishes - wrestling under water is our fears and doubts.
Our bodies are home of sluts finding reasons to live!
Our minds are carved memories
our legs have created more pains than the rebellious act of Boko Harams.
How do you name boys like us when you place more values on baby girls?
You said we were stronger and you left us to find freedom,
musical notes of songs which is to be
Sang by boys who grew into men
Gulping crooked waters- for strength
We were the origin
Of those unclad boys rejected.
We seek for the way to retrace our way into future built before us.
.
Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent
THE PRINCE OF SELF DELUSION
The Prince of self delusion,
a whiny tory clown,
who hasn't money for the using ,
thinks crawling brings it round,
pathetic in his fervour,
to be the masters hound,
like sharks sucking on a surfer,
when moralitys' unwound,
honesty has left the room,
where charity escapes,
fair play is on the mouldy moon,
NOW a greedy-moron-state?
So hated is the working man,
so callous is the master,
& greedy fat sluts have a plan,
to rob yer grave hereafter:}
Don Johnson
our tory governments are persecuting the pensioners and the unhealthy,
while propping up the POOR NEEDY wealthy...here in Australia..
$50,000 PER YEAR FOR THE RICH MOTHERS...who are having a child...
a lot less for the workers wife per year...CLASS DISTINCTION HEY:}---
There is a man named Mr. Purt
Money and power are his turf.
He rules the land with a tangerine fist
Misogynistic deeds always tops his list
He takes what he wants, no questions are asked.
Women are no exceptions in his take-over tasks
Greasy, slime-ball, a Neanderthal if you will.
Algae of the earth, pond scum, seeking chauvinistic thrills.
He encompasses himself with a cluster of men who think the same.
Narcissistic beastly creatures, I do proclaim!
Mr Purt is the leader of these evil clones
overcompensating with their wallets while he is perched on his throne.
Receding hair line over indulgent brutes
siting in the country club in their Armani suits.
Laughing and saying "All women are sluts and whores to a degree".
Puffing on cigars and sipping on their Brandy.
So, ladies, if you happen to see Mr. Purt and his entourage walk your way
RUN! RUN AS FAST AS YOU CAN!
HIDE YOURSELF FROM THE ORANGE HAND!
Jingoistic Men
Oh they are so smug
Because they have enough money
In the bank
They call the strong women “sluts”
They pretend to be the savior of working class
They forget that they are vacuous
And have dollar signs in place of their hearts
They argue that political correctness is gone mad
By this they mean why ladies are seeking equal pay.
Let us teach our daughters to stand up
Against these men of fragile egos and no brains