Best Triggering Poems
Envelop
of the eye scanner
institutes
the heart of
Compartmentalization
to grasp the distance
©Mahtab Bangalee
The mind picturesque each stroked thought
A heart integrates rough to savvy touch
Soft lips whispers to form lines of words
Tamed fingers fondle and tip pen and pad
Feet and fingers dictate iambs and rhyme
Expertise experience breathes the life
Hope each line, will arouse?
Emotions... reveries on pause
To animate, revolutionize, to inspire
More to sadden even put you to dire
Like a kiss that triggers a thousands
So thus each and every creative prose
Beguiling you to fun and travel for free
To world of deep reality or maffick fantasy
Hatching each senses to burst or spur
Even journeying vast to bright stars
Connoisseur of beats sweets and treats
Rocketing fast for exhilarating release
(c) Olive Eloisa
1:26 pm
April 24, 2014
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CONTEST: POEMS ABOUT POETRY
SPONSOR: Kelly Deschler
3RD PLACE
We listen to you
Act the way you want
We stand in the queue
For the things which you can’t.
You don’t hear me
I had a blister in my knee
Taught to stay in the igloo
In the summer out of blue
They waste time differing
Hunting for our flaws
We can see through the gloss
Can’t stand it, that’s just triggering.
Now we're here at home.
And im trying not to feel all alone.
Deep in thought,
Feeling like i was forgot,
Looking at all the signs,
They're telling me you're all bout to say your goodbyes.
Just sitting her at home,
Trying not to feel all alone.
Sitting in the dark,
Hearing the dogs bark.
Knowing my thoughts,
Are causing me to make the marks,
While knowing you all plan to leave me.
Just ing kills me.
So we're here at home.....
And im trying not to feel alone
I’m a fake feminist.
I take pleasure in the thought of submission, in the image of me
bent over a table and ed,
ravaged out of my mind,
reduced to tears and whimpers.
I don’t enjoy it, I don’t get sexual gratification from it,
but a deep satisfaction that screams
“it’s okay, this is normal”.
I cry afterwards, of course,
or even during these fantasising moments of my days.
My mind plunges
into a deep pool of masochistic imagery,
bordering on troubling,
taboo scenes that I can’t share,
not even with my own self, never.
My sex gets aroused while I feel nothing,
not a single nervous ending, not even a run of my fingers on my skin.
I am numb.
My mind is numb.
Even when I come, I can’t make myself utter a noise.
Then my eyes burn, my nose itches.
Don’t cry,
I think to myself, don’t cry again,
this is supposed to feel good,
and then the ugly sobs come.
Big, disturbing wails of help
(who am I asking for?) fill my room.
I feel disgust, I retch.
Almost like a performance
I stop immediately,
the physical numbness spreads to my brain like an anaesthetic,
my mind suffers from an amnesia episode and
my body moves on its own to the bathroom.
I seek men,
women,
anyone
who will have me.
I entice them, lead them on.
I want to be dominated, used and discarded.
I want to be an equal, loved and held.
I am a fake feminist,
I fantasise with being raped, pillaged,
taken, broken apart
and left to freeze under the night sky.
I am a fake feminist,
and a child,
and a woman,
and a man,
and nothing all at once.
I want to make sense of everything, I want to remember nothing.
I am a fake feminist,
and if my innocence had not been trumped and torn to pieces,
if I had been loved and not hated,
caressed and not abused,
I would be a real one.