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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

i

why should i capitalise my i’s

when i am insignificant?

i don’t capitalise the g in god

because i don’t believe in him;

therefore, i’m certainly not

worthy of the capitalisation

because i don’t believe in myself either.

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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
i
why should i capitalise my i’s
when i am insignificant?
i don’t capitalise the g in god
because i don’t believe in him;
therefore, i’m certainly not
worthy of the capitalisation
because i don’t believe in myself either.
#poetry  #ComingSoon  #Itslit  #sneakpeek  #poetrybook 
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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

To Censor or not to Censor

Censorship

noun [mass noun]

the suppression or prohibition of any parts of books, films, news, etc. that are considered obscene, politically unacceptable, or a threat to security: the regulation imposes censorship on all media | [as modifier] : we have strict censorship laws.

To Suppress 

verb 

forcibly put an end to: the rising was savagely suppressed.

prevent the development, action, or expression of (a feeling, impulse, idea, etc.); restrain: 

Prohibition

noun [mass noun]

the action of forbidding something, especially by law:

Censorship is a pain in the ass. For us all. Ever had that moment in life where you have felt censored and unable to express the way you feel in the way you want to express said feeling? Me too. 

There is no middle-ground with censorship, you either censor, or you don't. And as a company, Prose doesn't. It's one of its selling points, believe it or not. 

When I started working at Prose over two years ago, our stance on censorship was very much the same as it is now. Not that this means we haven't had numerous conversations about it, because we have. But we have always come back to the same conclusion, no censorship. 

A huge part of creativity is the freedom to express oneself. If we censor, we stifle the creative process; something that would be deadly in a creative community. I personally have seen other writers from different sites complain about mature filters impacting their reach on those sites due to the way in which the algorithms work. Discovery is important to all writers, whether we care to admit this or not. 

I'm pretty sure when renaissance artists painted nudes, they were considered controversial; but it's art, and it's that art that some of us here will have studied in school or college. 

This brings me to my next sticking point. Young people. I am a mother of two children, 12 and 9. My 12 year old has picked up Fifty Shades of Grey in her school library, does this mean the school shouldn't stock it? No. It doesn't. My daughter uses social media, which is littered with graphic imagery, and videos, etc. Do I tell the social media sites that they should censor their users? No. I control what my daughter sees. I discuss with her why I do this, too. As a parent, it's my job to censor her social intake. Would I let her use Prose? Probably not; I write some of those controversial pieces, and I will not censor my writing for the sake of my child being able to read me. The words I leave upon my profile will forever be there for them both to read when they grow up. I want to show them the art behind the gore, behind the lust. How we take something ugly and create beautiful chaos. But not yet. Prose wasn't created for young people. But we cannot police the use of Prose by young people. There is absolutely nothing we can do. Kids lie about their age. I know I did when I was young and wanted in on the new chatrooms of that month. 

As readers and writers, we have it in our full control of what we see and don't see. Unfollow and block are great tools. It's not wrong to find things distasteful, or not to your liking, but it's also not wrong to write those things either. Horses for courses, is the saying that springs to mind. I don't particularly like "Mills and Boon" style fiction, that doesn't mean there isn't a place for it. If you find content or image that you don't like, use the tools you have to rectify that. Whilst you may not like it, there'll be a number who do. 

Prose is not going to suggest censorship of any kind. If you feel the need to tag your pieces, then do so, that is totally up to you. But I won't apologise as a writer who doesn't tag her work. I write a range of things and some of those things most certainly won't be to everyone's tastes. But it's my Prose account, and I am free to express myself how I choose, just like everyone else. There is a whole debate through the author world about trigger warnings for instance, one that has everyone divided, and one that will never be universally accepted by everyone. 

My point here is, Prose is damned either way. No censorship - people aren't going to be happy. Censorship - people aren't going to be happy. Being stuck between rock and a hard place isn't easy, but after two+ years building relationships and listening to the community, no censorship prevails with the vast majority of the community. 

We are constantly improving our service to you, and we may find new tools to give you to allow you to moderate your audience of posts, but still, we will not implement censorship. Creativity is expression. 

Fill your streams with the content you want to see, by writing that which you'd like to read and following only those who fit your tastes. If anyone violates our terms and conditions and writes abusive content, for example, this is a different matter, and you can always reach out to us. 

Write. Read. Share.

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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
To Censor or not to Censor
Censorship
noun [mass noun]
the suppression or prohibition of any parts of books, films, news, etc. that are considered obscene, politically unacceptable, or a threat to security: the regulation imposes censorship on all media | [as modifier] : we have strict censorship laws.

To Suppress 
verb 
forcibly put an end to: the rising was savagely suppressed.
prevent the development, action, or expression of (a feeling, impulse, idea, etc.); restrain: 

Prohibition
noun [mass noun]
the action of forbidding something, especially by law:

Censorship is a pain in the ass. For us all. Ever had that moment in life where you have felt censored and unable to express the way you feel in the way you want to express said feeling? Me too. 

There is no middle-ground with censorship, you either censor, or you don't. And as a company, Prose doesn't. It's one of its selling points, believe it or not. 

When I started working at Prose over two years ago, our stance on censorship was very much the same as it is now. Not that this means we haven't had numerous conversations about it, because we have. But we have always come back to the same conclusion, no censorship. 

A huge part of creativity is the freedom to express oneself. If we censor, we stifle the creative process; something that would be deadly in a creative community. I personally have seen other writers from different sites complain about mature filters impacting their reach on those sites due to the way in which the algorithms work. Discovery is important to all writers, whether we care to admit this or not. 

I'm pretty sure when renaissance artists painted nudes, they were considered controversial; but it's art, and it's that art that some of us here will have studied in school or college. 

This brings me to my next sticking point. Young people. I am a mother of two children, 12 and 9. My 12 year old has picked up Fifty Shades of Grey in her school library, does this mean the school shouldn't stock it? No. It doesn't. My daughter uses social media, which is littered with graphic imagery, and videos, etc. Do I tell the social media sites that they should censor their users? No. I control what my daughter sees. I discuss with her why I do this, too. As a parent, it's my job to censor her social intake. Would I let her use Prose? Probably not; I write some of those controversial pieces, and I will not censor my writing for the sake of my child being able to read me. The words I leave upon my profile will forever be there for them both to read when they grow up. I want to show them the art behind the gore, behind the lust. How we take something ugly and create beautiful chaos. But not yet. Prose wasn't created for young people. But we cannot police the use of Prose by young people. There is absolutely nothing we can do. Kids lie about their age. I know I did when I was young and wanted in on the new chatrooms of that month. 

As readers and writers, we have it in our full control of what we see and don't see. Unfollow and block are great tools. It's not wrong to find things distasteful, or not to your liking, but it's also not wrong to write those things either. Horses for courses, is the saying that springs to mind. I don't particularly like "Mills and Boon" style fiction, that doesn't mean there isn't a place for it. If you find content or image that you don't like, use the tools you have to rectify that. Whilst you may not like it, there'll be a number who do. 

Prose is not going to suggest censorship of any kind. If you feel the need to tag your pieces, then do so, that is totally up to you. But I won't apologise as a writer who doesn't tag her work. I write a range of things and some of those things most certainly won't be to everyone's tastes. But it's my Prose account, and I am free to express myself how I choose, just like everyone else. There is a whole debate through the author world about trigger warnings for instance, one that has everyone divided, and one that will never be universally accepted by everyone. 

My point here is, Prose is damned either way. No censorship - people aren't going to be happy. Censorship - people aren't going to be happy. Being stuck between rock and a hard place isn't easy, but after two+ years building relationships and listening to the community, no censorship prevails with the vast majority of the community. 

We are constantly improving our service to you, and we may find new tools to give you to allow you to moderate your audience of posts, but still, we will not implement censorship. Creativity is expression. 

Fill your streams with the content you want to see, by writing that which you'd like to read and following only those who fit your tastes. If anyone violates our terms and conditions and writes abusive content, for example, this is a different matter, and you can always reach out to us. 

Write. Read. Share.

#opinion  #FreedomtoExpress  #CensorshipFree 
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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

don't let the bad ones in

when wolves are dressed as sheep

but their teeth are just as sharp

when you're naïve and do not believe that their fur

might be different, but their bones are just as strong

you are stuck between a rock and a lie

getting crushed

by the reality

that they aren't who you thought they were

- the sound that leaves their lips

isn't the soft hum of the herbivore

it's the howl

of the carnivore tearing at your flesh

gnashing at your heart

destroying your spirit.

their grin isn't of happiness,

it's them baring the teeth of betrayal

snout to the sky as they tell

the moon their secrets at night,

carrying the darkness they've hidden

and wrapping you up in it

making you feel warm, loved, cared for,

until the wool starts wearing, white to grey

grey to black, the darkness smothers,

there's no going back

its paws rip and scar

leaving their deceit

permanently;

defiling your purity

sullying your soul

taking your innocence

leaving you half less of a whole.

when you let a bad one in,

you won't always see before your eyes

the fog that they bring with them

as they change into their guise

i guess the jokes on you, or maybe it's on them

one thing i can tell you is

you won't be the same again.

be careful who you trust

those with whom you share your heart

it may be the wolf you've let in

yet i had a sheep tear mine apart…

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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
don't let the bad ones in
when wolves are dressed as sheep
but their teeth are just as sharp
when you're naïve and do not believe that their fur
might be different, but their bones are just as strong
you are stuck between a rock and a lie
getting crushed
by the reality
that they aren't who you thought they were
- the sound that leaves their lips
isn't the soft hum of the herbivore
it's the howl
of the carnivore tearing at your flesh
gnashing at your heart
destroying your spirit.
their grin isn't of happiness,
it's them baring the teeth of betrayal
snout to the sky as they tell
the moon their secrets at night,
carrying the darkness they've hidden
and wrapping you up in it
making you feel warm, loved, cared for,
until the wool starts wearing, white to grey
grey to black, the darkness smothers,
there's no going back
its paws rip and scar
leaving their deceit
permanently;
defiling your purity
sullying your soul
taking your innocence
leaving you half less of a whole.
when you let a bad one in,
you won't always see before your eyes
the fog that they bring with them
as they change into their guise
i guess the jokes on you, or maybe it's on them
one thing i can tell you is
you won't be the same again.
be careful who you trust
those with whom you share your heart
it may be the wolf you've let in
yet i had a sheep tear mine apart…
#poetry  #amwriting  #Itslit  #getlit  #thingsIfeel 
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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by Sammielee46

Deflowering

Everyone has addictions.

Drugs. Alcohol. Pussy. Cigarettes. Food.

Fuck, some people are even addicted to the sound of their own voices.

My addiction isn't any of the above. I have an addiction to the sweetest nectar known to man. Innocence.

That majestic glint in an apple-eyed youngster, the look of sheer wonder, where retinas process the world in glorious kaleidoscopic colour; just before the eulogy of adulthood is read aloud during the funeral of life. Their leathered eyes becoming knowing, worldly, and suspicious.

My preferred age range is seven to twelve year olds. Prepubescent saplings that make me salivate at first glance. The spindle-limbed, uncoordinated, beauties make my dick harder than concrete.

Child pornography doesn't cut it. It never has. It’s not just about the visual aspect of what the world call 'minors.' It’s the three dimensional, multi-sensory experience. The feel, the smell. Fuck, the smell. The aroma of outdoors, sticky, sweet, their unique syrup. The feel of the smoothest skin, unmarred by razors, wax strips; pores still closed, unwrapped, pure. The sound of childhood. Giggles; the inhibited nature in which they let go and do not care who hears them. Carefreeness, immaturity, innocence.

It has always boiled back to innocence. Through my mothers’ own addictions I had my innocence stolen at the ripe age of four. Her vices: drugs, booze, and sex, made me flower into an adult way sooner than I should have. I’d listen to her moan and scream whilst some dirty looking old man would bend her over the counter and fuck her in the ass. I’d often walk in on her shooting up, belt around her arm, honey in a needle, burnt coloured spoon on the table, eyes glazed, body slumping. Seeing her that way would relieve me, her being drugged up was far better than fuelled with alcohol or screwing a stranger.

I had to fend for myself. Cook, wash my own clothes, pay for the gas and electric, get myself to and from school; everything a mother should do for a child but didn’t. By the time I was seven, I may as well have been twenty-seven. My mum died, overdosing on the liquid-gold lifeblood, and I was left tidy up around her. Time passed and eventually the care system took me in and tried to enforce childhood back on an already evolved flower. It didn’t work. I ran from every home they placed me in. Cat and mouse races ensued until I was finally old enough to be the man I am today.

Flowers. An analogy I have spent years cultivating. The life cycle of the human race closely mirrors that of the life of a flower, yet it never ends with a beautiful rose blossom. Bear with me here. A seed buried in the soil taking the nourishment from it’s life force, until it’s born, a little stem, green, new, fresh, poking it’s head towards the light from the darkness that consumed it, breaking free from the confines of the underworld. It flourishes, and the point at which I am interested is when it buds, the little heads at the end of the stem, the best moment, the innocence is still there, until it flowers into an adult and it turns out to be nothing more than a goddamn dandelion. Ugly, marred, and sowing its fucking seed everywhere.

I ended up teaching these little ones. I chose my career as I wanted to nurture innocence, capture their immaturity and try and keep them as childlike for as long as possible. The kinder-garden of spring, if you will.

The very last time I touched a bud was in class. She was my student. It was all but a hug; she’d fallen in the playground at recess, grazed her pigeon-knee, she was crying and was so sad. I held her, and the fire inside me ignited. I felt alive. I knew at that time that I must touch her more intimately, but it would have to be away from the school, it would take time. I would tend this garden until I got her alone to be able to prune her until she was putty in my hands.

After months of work, which included being trusted by her mother and father, convincing them that their actually intelligent child needed extra support outside of the classroom, they allowed me to home-tutor. To begin with she was off limits, her parents were always there, but as time went on they became confident with me being around. A day then came where they needed to go out and entrusted me with her care.

We’d finished our reading lesson and she showed me her bedroom, I won’t tell you her real name but I’ll call her Lily. Lily’s bedroom was beautiful, something out of the movies I had watched as a kid, something I never had. There were teddy’s everywhere, pink drapes, the softest carpet. We laid on the floor together, her smell fingering my nasal hairs. I touched her leg with my fingertips, slowly tracing up to the apex of her thighs, gooseflesh erupted across her skin and I knew at that point I had to taste her innocence.

I was gentle with my tongue, I tasted her newness, my tastebuds echoing the goose-pimples on her ivory flesh. She giggled, told me it felt funny, I told her in a reassuring voice to lay still, that funny feeling would feel nicer than candy. I swirled my tongue around her core until she began to shudder. My photosynthesis made my little bud quiver with my breath, with my touch; I breathed life into her, and she looked the most beautiful I had ever seen her.

I told her that the special time we had just shared was our little secret. Lily nodded. I wiped her with a washcloth, and we sat back at the kitchen table and coloured together, just in time for her parents’ return. I went home and took care of my iron-fisted erection.

For months this carried on until touching her and tasting her just wasn’t enough anymore, I was walking around with tight balls and a constant hard-on. I needed to connect us together.

----

There was blood everywhere, she was screaming, her tears scarring her ivy face, what had I done? She looked up at me, and at that point I knew I had to run, for my little bud had turned into a dandelion. I had stolen her innocence, I had stolen the innocence of so many children, just like my mother did.

----

This is my full, unedited, confession. I dialled 911 seconds ago. When you find this note, check my briefcase. I have listed all of the children that I have deflowered. Help them, please help them, just like I wish someone helped me.

~ Fin.

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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by Sammielee46
Deflowering
Everyone has addictions.

Drugs. Alcohol. Pussy. Cigarettes. Food.

Fuck, some people are even addicted to the sound of their own voices.

My addiction isn't any of the above. I have an addiction to the sweetest nectar known to man. Innocence.

That majestic glint in an apple-eyed youngster, the look of sheer wonder, where retinas process the world in glorious kaleidoscopic colour; just before the eulogy of adulthood is read aloud during the funeral of life. Their leathered eyes becoming knowing, worldly, and suspicious.

My preferred age range is seven to twelve year olds. Prepubescent saplings that make me salivate at first glance. The spindle-limbed, uncoordinated, beauties make my dick harder than concrete.

Child pornography doesn't cut it. It never has. It’s not just about the visual aspect of what the world call 'minors.' It’s the three dimensional, multi-sensory experience. The feel, the smell. Fuck, the smell. The aroma of outdoors, sticky, sweet, their unique syrup. The feel of the smoothest skin, unmarred by razors, wax strips; pores still closed, unwrapped, pure. The sound of childhood. Giggles; the inhibited nature in which they let go and do not care who hears them. Carefreeness, immaturity, innocence.

It has always boiled back to innocence. Through my mothers’ own addictions I had my innocence stolen at the ripe age of four. Her vices: drugs, booze, and sex, made me flower into an adult way sooner than I should have. I’d listen to her moan and scream whilst some dirty looking old man would bend her over the counter and fuck her in the ass. I’d often walk in on her shooting up, belt around her arm, honey in a needle, burnt coloured spoon on the table, eyes glazed, body slumping. Seeing her that way would relieve me, her being drugged up was far better than fuelled with alcohol or screwing a stranger.

I had to fend for myself. Cook, wash my own clothes, pay for the gas and electric, get myself to and from school; everything a mother should do for a child but didn’t. By the time I was seven, I may as well have been twenty-seven. My mum died, overdosing on the liquid-gold lifeblood, and I was left tidy up around her. Time passed and eventually the care system took me in and tried to enforce childhood back on an already evolved flower. It didn’t work. I ran from every home they placed me in. Cat and mouse races ensued until I was finally old enough to be the man I am today.

Flowers. An analogy I have spent years cultivating. The life cycle of the human race closely mirrors that of the life of a flower, yet it never ends with a beautiful rose blossom. Bear with me here. A seed buried in the soil taking the nourishment from it’s life force, until it’s born, a little stem, green, new, fresh, poking it’s head towards the light from the darkness that consumed it, breaking free from the confines of the underworld. It flourishes, and the point at which I am interested is when it buds, the little heads at the end of the stem, the best moment, the innocence is still there, until it flowers into an adult and it turns out to be nothing more than a goddamn dandelion. Ugly, marred, and sowing its fucking seed everywhere.

I ended up teaching these little ones. I chose my career as I wanted to nurture innocence, capture their immaturity and try and keep them as childlike for as long as possible. The kinder-garden of spring, if you will.

The very last time I touched a bud was in class. She was my student. It was all but a hug; she’d fallen in the playground at recess, grazed her pigeon-knee, she was crying and was so sad. I held her, and the fire inside me ignited. I felt alive. I knew at that time that I must touch her more intimately, but it would have to be away from the school, it would take time. I would tend this garden until I got her alone to be able to prune her until she was putty in my hands.

After months of work, which included being trusted by her mother and father, convincing them that their actually intelligent child needed extra support outside of the classroom, they allowed me to home-tutor. To begin with she was off limits, her parents were always there, but as time went on they became confident with me being around. A day then came where they needed to go out and entrusted me with her care.

We’d finished our reading lesson and she showed me her bedroom, I won’t tell you her real name but I’ll call her Lily. Lily’s bedroom was beautiful, something out of the movies I had watched as a kid, something I never had. There were teddy’s everywhere, pink drapes, the softest carpet. We laid on the floor together, her smell fingering my nasal hairs. I touched her leg with my fingertips, slowly tracing up to the apex of her thighs, gooseflesh erupted across her skin and I knew at that point I had to taste her innocence.

I was gentle with my tongue, I tasted her newness, my tastebuds echoing the goose-pimples on her ivory flesh. She giggled, told me it felt funny, I told her in a reassuring voice to lay still, that funny feeling would feel nicer than candy. I swirled my tongue around her core until she began to shudder. My photosynthesis made my little bud quiver with my breath, with my touch; I breathed life into her, and she looked the most beautiful I had ever seen her.

I told her that the special time we had just shared was our little secret. Lily nodded. I wiped her with a washcloth, and we sat back at the kitchen table and coloured together, just in time for her parents’ return. I went home and took care of my iron-fisted erection.

For months this carried on until touching her and tasting her just wasn’t enough anymore, I was walking around with tight balls and a constant hard-on. I needed to connect us together.

----

There was blood everywhere, she was screaming, her tears scarring her ivy face, what had I done? She looked up at me, and at that point I knew I had to run, for my little bud had turned into a dandelion. I had stolen her innocence, I had stolen the innocence of so many children, just like my mother did.

----

This is my full, unedited, confession. I dialled 911 seconds ago. When you find this note, check my briefcase. I have listed all of the children that I have deflowered. Help them, please help them, just like I wish someone helped me.


~ Fin.
#fiction  #shortstory  #nsfw  #Itslit  #LolitaInspired 
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Challenge of the Week #59: Modernise Shakespeare’s ‘Shall I Compare Thee’ sonnet. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Sammielee46

I should compare

I should compare you to a Cobra's tongue

You are full of venomous spit

With toxic gases you empty your lung

And dim the moonlight after it's lit

You coil yourself into the shape of black lies

You're the mountains that hide the moon

You are a snake in a victims disguise

The summer fades with your evil monsoon

But the air will carry your poison away

You cannot hide from the truth

Strong winds will unveil depravities decay

You lost your purity along with your youth

As long as eyes can see, and men can speak

As long as lies are told, his pollution will leak...

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Challenge of the Week #59: Modernise Shakespeare’s ‘Shall I Compare Thee’ sonnet. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Sammielee46
I should compare
I should compare you to a Cobra's tongue
You are full of venomous spit
With toxic gases you empty your lung
And dim the moonlight after it's lit
You coil yourself into the shape of black lies
You're the mountains that hide the moon
You are a snake in a victims disguise
The summer fades with your evil monsoon
But the air will carry your poison away
You cannot hide from the truth
Strong winds will unveil depravities decay
You lost your purity along with your youth
As long as eyes can see, and men can speak
As long as lies are told, his pollution will leak...
#poetry  #prosechallenge  #sonnet 
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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

All I've Ever Known

"It's all I've ever known"

is something I've heard from you

so many times, I don't care

to keep count.

An excuse, to reject me, probably;

but, according to what you've told me

all you've ever known is

a life where you're unheard,

often unconsidered, and

not cared for the way you

should be.

All you've ever known is

not being put first.

Not being a priority.

All you've ever known

is a smile that doesn't

reach the eyes,

a laugh that comes

from the throat

rather than the stomach,

and happiness that is

born in the bowels of

superficiality.

All I've ever known, is all

you've ever told me

so forgive me if I'm wrong

when I say that all you've ever known

is a life directed by a conductor,

rather than sung as a

co-written melody.

All you've ever known

a life where you're not known,

not the way you should be.

A place where you're not

celebrated

a house that's a soul

short of a home

a place where your strings

aren't the strings for your wings;

where you're free to explore

your soul-written melody

where depths are puddles

and not the canyons

we have carved with our conversations.

All you've known is empty,

void of heart

void of colour

- a black and white existence.

We found the grey scale

turned up the warmth and found

the greens, the blues, the orangey hues.

All we've ever known is perfection in imperfection

love that's pure

a friendship that's the finest

a connection that erases the

clouds so we can watch the moon

and gaze at the stars that we hung.

All you've known for the longest time

is my care and love

that filled a hole so deep

that even space wouldn't fill it.

All you've known is our good mornings

our good nights

the first thought at sunrise

and as you switch out your lights.

A day that spans our love

with love left to spare;

forehead kisses, intimacy

and your fingers in my hair.

Laughter. Care. Support.

Someone who knows

who you truly are,

a hand that holds your dreams

and encourages them,

a voice that speaks words of love,

adoration, and one that tells you

how proud she is of you

and all that you do

and that we will overcome

the obstacles we face, as we

are stronger together,

side-by-side.

See, all you have known

for the longest

time

is my rhythm dancing

hand in hand with

your rhyme.

Take us away

and all you'll know

is the curtain closing

at the end of our show.

Leaving behind the empty

stage, a half-written melody

with the end an empty page.

Don't let go

can't you see?

All you'll ever know

is you

and me,

forever and a day

for all eternity...

22
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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
All I've Ever Known
"It's all I've ever known"
is something I've heard from you
so many times, I don't care
to keep count.
An excuse, to reject me, probably;
but, according to what you've told me
all you've ever known is
a life where you're unheard,
often unconsidered, and
not cared for the way you
should be.
All you've ever known is
not being put first.
Not being a priority.
All you've ever known
is a smile that doesn't
reach the eyes,
a laugh that comes
from the throat
rather than the stomach,
and happiness that is
born in the bowels of
superficiality.
All I've ever known, is all
you've ever told me
so forgive me if I'm wrong
when I say that all you've ever known
is a life directed by a conductor,
rather than sung as a
co-written melody.
All you've ever known
a life where you're not known,
not the way you should be.
A place where you're not
celebrated
a house that's a soul
short of a home
a place where your strings
aren't the strings for your wings;
where you're free to explore
your soul-written melody
where depths are puddles
and not the canyons
we have carved with our conversations.
All you've known is empty,
void of heart
void of colour
- a black and white existence.
We found the grey scale
turned up the warmth and found
the greens, the blues, the orangey hues.
All we've ever known is perfection in imperfection
love that's pure
a friendship that's the finest
a connection that erases the
clouds so we can watch the moon
and gaze at the stars that we hung.
All you've known for the longest time
is my care and love
that filled a hole so deep
that even space wouldn't fill it.
All you've known is our good mornings
our good nights
the first thought at sunrise
and as you switch out your lights.
A day that spans our love
with love left to spare;
forehead kisses, intimacy
and your fingers in my hair.
Laughter. Care. Support.
Someone who knows
who you truly are,
a hand that holds your dreams
and encourages them,
a voice that speaks words of love,
adoration, and one that tells you
how proud she is of you
and all that you do
and that we will overcome
the obstacles we face, as we
are stronger together,
side-by-side.
See, all you have known
for the longest
time
is my rhythm dancing
hand in hand with
your rhyme.
Take us away
and all you'll know
is the curtain closing
at the end of our show.
Leaving behind the empty
stage, a half-written melody
with the end an empty page.
Don't let go
can't you see?
All you'll ever know
is you
and me,
forever and a day
for all eternity...
#fiction  #poetry  #amwriting  #Itslit  #getlit 
22
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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Death? What The Fuck Is Life?

An entity that scars the breathing

More than the breath-less

Let's face it,

Once they're gone

Their torture is extinct.

Not for the people

Left behind though.

Behind.

What a fucked up

Way of thinking.

To suggest leaving someone behind

Implies the deceased is moving

Forward.

Only a cunt could think that way.

Death is a full stop. A period.

Whatever you want to fucking call it.

An end, following a crescendo.

The cycle of life is cruel

Knowing we become worm food

Eaten from the outside in.

That's unless you get cremated.

Decimated by flames

Becoming an ash heap

Mixed with the wooden entity

Of the final crib we sleep in.

Bastardised life.

Perhaps life is death,

Death, once you're partnered

Is infinite.

It's the never ending flatline

The echo within suffocation

The black void of sight.

Life, is a lie.

We're born, and we evolve,

From prepubescents into

Freshly fucked sexual creatures.

Where men's dicks get hard

Women get slick to the touch

Both wanting

To achieve the big 'O'.

Then we get old.

Cocks stay flaccid

Morning stiffness - the past participle

Men need Viagra,

Women need a miracle,

Post-menopausal sweat

The only moisture achieved. Ever.

We then begin to wonder

What the fuck life was for.

Opportunities missed,

Hindsight - the prick that teases us

With his knowledge.

Fuck him, and his foresight.

(He could've given us a head's up at some point.)

Then, before we know it,

(And that's if we even make it to an old age)

(Some people are unfortunate enough to die young)

We lose our mental capacity too.

Reverting to memories that are bitterly sweet.

Remembering the good times

While our families watch us rot.

As we, ashen and wrinkled, can't remember

Who the fuck they are.

You're lucky if your memory

Is the only thing you lose.

Teeth, hair, skin tone, and muscle definition.

The ability to be optimistic, and positive.

Everything heads South.

Your mental attitude,

Breasts and balls

And your life.

We all end up six feet under

Or blowing in the wind

Being carried as grains

Of fuck knows what.

When I die,

I told myself I'd complete

The cliched - "Circle of Life."

Fuck, if Disney's "The Lion King"

Talks about it, it must be true, right?

So I'm to be buried.

That's if, by that time,

My finances have headed North vs South,

(Along with everything else)

And my family can afford

My wooden box.

I hope my grave neighbour is some

Deceased literary genius

Just so I share the same soil

With someone who achieved

Something I couldn't.

The concept of life after death

Scares me shitless.

After going through countless heartbreaks

Being flat broke and unattractive

Why the fuck, would I,

Want to live again?

Just so the cycle

Can be as brutal to me?

As long as my decomposition

Nourishes the soil above and

Grows one, just fucking one, flower

Then I guess, there is life after my death.

That, would be just perfect.

So, what the fuck is death?

Who really gives a shit?

My question is, what the fuck is life?

18
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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Death? What The Fuck Is Life?
An entity that scars the breathing
More than the breath-less
Let's face it,
Once they're gone
Their torture is extinct.
Not for the people
Left behind though.

Behind.
What a fucked up
Way of thinking.
To suggest leaving someone behind
Implies the deceased is moving
Forward.
Only a cunt could think that way.

Death is a full stop. A period.
Whatever you want to fucking call it.
An end, following a crescendo.

The cycle of life is cruel
Knowing we become worm food
Eaten from the outside in.
That's unless you get cremated.

Decimated by flames
Becoming an ash heap
Mixed with the wooden entity
Of the final crib we sleep in.

Bastardised life.
Perhaps life is death,
Death, once you're partnered
Is infinite.
It's the never ending flatline
The echo within suffocation
The black void of sight.

Life, is a lie.
We're born, and we evolve,
From prepubescents into
Freshly fucked sexual creatures.

Where men's dicks get hard
Women get slick to the touch
Both wanting
To achieve the big 'O'.

Then we get old.
Cocks stay flaccid
Morning stiffness - the past participle
Men need Viagra,
Women need a miracle,
Post-menopausal sweat
The only moisture achieved. Ever.

We then begin to wonder
What the fuck life was for.
Opportunities missed,
Hindsight - the prick that teases us
With his knowledge.
Fuck him, and his foresight.
(He could've given us a head's up at some point.)

Then, before we know it,
(And that's if we even make it to an old age)
(Some people are unfortunate enough to die young)
We lose our mental capacity too.
Reverting to memories that are bitterly sweet.
Remembering the good times
While our families watch us rot.
As we, ashen and wrinkled, can't remember
Who the fuck they are.

You're lucky if your memory
Is the only thing you lose.
Teeth, hair, skin tone, and muscle definition.
The ability to be optimistic, and positive.
Everything heads South.
Your mental attitude,
Breasts and balls
And your life.

We all end up six feet under
Or blowing in the wind
Being carried as grains
Of fuck knows what.

When I die,
I told myself I'd complete
The cliched - "Circle of Life."
Fuck, if Disney's "The Lion King"
Talks about it, it must be true, right?
So I'm to be buried.

That's if, by that time,
My finances have headed North vs South,
(Along with everything else)
And my family can afford
My wooden box.
I hope my grave neighbour is some
Deceased literary genius
Just so I share the same soil
With someone who achieved
Something I couldn't.

The concept of life after death
Scares me shitless.
After going through countless heartbreaks
Being flat broke and unattractive
Why the fuck, would I,
Want to live again?
Just so the cycle
Can be as brutal to me?

As long as my decomposition
Nourishes the soil above and
Grows one, just fucking one, flower
Then I guess, there is life after my death.
That, would be just perfect.

So, what the fuck is death?
Who really gives a shit?
My question is, what the fuck is life?
#poetry  #oldie  #amwriting  #Itslit  #thingsithink 
18
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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Big Girls Cry

Tears fall.

Orbs of despair drip.

Following the contour of her cheek.

Echoing the bleakness

she holds in her

sorrowful heart.

Pirouettes puddle

as black smears

around her puffed eyes.

She cried as a child

when she couldn't get her own way;

now she cries

for everything she's lost

the innocence that was taken

the freedom that was abused

the choices she wasn't given.

Streaks of pain kiss her skin

- skin that's scarred with the weight

of memories that keep her awake

at night,

tearing her apart from the

inside out.

Nightmares that haunt her

echo in her screams

- the kind that leave the throat

without making a sound,

when the terror steals

the horror from your voice

by placing its fear

over quivering lips,

smearing her lipstick;

her war paint,

her mask,

washed away

by things that can never

be forgotten.

When she was young,

she was told that

big girls don't cry.

But after yesteryear's

this big girl is still

a child inside

- crying into the ether,

wishing that one day

she could feel the

purity

that has all but been

forgotten...

31
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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Big Girls Cry
Tears fall.
Orbs of despair drip.
Following the contour of her cheek.
Echoing the bleakness
she holds in her
sorrowful heart.
Pirouettes puddle
as black smears
around her puffed eyes.
She cried as a child
when she couldn't get her own way;
now she cries
for everything she's lost
the innocence that was taken
the freedom that was abused
the choices she wasn't given.
Streaks of pain kiss her skin
- skin that's scarred with the weight
of memories that keep her awake
at night,
tearing her apart from the
inside out.
Nightmares that haunt her
echo in her screams
- the kind that leave the throat
without making a sound,
when the terror steals
the horror from your voice
by placing its fear
over quivering lips,
smearing her lipstick;
her war paint,
her mask,
washed away
by things that can never
be forgotten.
When she was young,
she was told that
big girls don't cry.
But after yesteryear's
this big girl is still
a child inside
- crying into the ether,
wishing that one day
she could feel the
purity
that has all but been
forgotten...
#poetry  #amwriting  #Itslit  #getlit 
31
7
9
Juice
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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Squeakypeewee and Me

The day we first met, 

wasn't the day of our first group. 

It was the day we were 

expected 

to introduce who we are

and what we do. 

To share with you all

what writing has done for us, 

and what we believe writing 

could do for you. 

I remember seeing you there, 

sat alone, 

in the corner of the most 

sacred room

- the library. 

The freest part of 

a place that has the sole 

purpose of restraining 

- keeping you locked up.

The prison library

allows minds to wander 

past the physical realm 

into the realms of imagination; 

far beyond the bars and 

concrete walls, 

and it is there that I noticed you. 

You were a little out of place 

- a young woman 

sat in a library that, 

at the time, 

was full of people twenty years 

older. 

If I remember right, 

it was some club for 

the older residents. 

You sat intently listening 

to what I thought was a 

wobbly voice coming 

from my dry mouth. 

We spoke to you all

about the group and what 

it entailed, then left. 

Week one of the group, 

you were there. 

Shy. Reserved. Cautious. 

I could feel your nerves

and I'm sure you could feel mine. 

You told us, 

"I don't like poetry, I don't want to write it, 

oh, and you're not going to make me 

read aloud are you?" 

It was just you and another, 

until a few weeks later. 

We didn't push you to begin with.

The first few tasks had you writing 

about what you know. You. 

Your routine, what makes you, you. 

We didn't ask why you were there, 

it didn't matter to us. 

Week two was when I knew. 

Reading your seven day diary 

(a task set on the first week) 

opened my eyes to what you 

were capable of. 

The irony of this is that 

your uniqueness comes from your 

brutal honesty. The truths that you 

smear across each page. 

It was from that moment 

that I knew, we all knew, 

you had talent beyond diarising 

and story telling. 

With your words you can 

alter the readers' emotions; 

which is hard to achieve. 

Fast forward to today. 

- forty-two weeks, 

almost forty-three. 

You have one group left 

with us

before you move to a new prison,

a new horizon where 

your sun may one day rise 

in a room beyond the bars, 

where you can taste freedom

and finally begin to see 

how incredibly far you have come. 

I personally have seen a huge 

change in you over forty-three weeks. 

You have grown so much 

and that's the purpose of this poem. 

To tell you how fucking proud I am 

of you. 

I can't let you go from this prison 

before telling you what you've achieved 

along with what you've taught me. 

I think we all should hear those things 

from time to time. 

Just don't go getting all big-headed, okay? 

The girl we met all those weeks ago

now loves to write poetry

(haiku's particularly),

she volunteers to read aloud 

to a group that has sometimes 

reached sixteen members in total. 

She is sociable. Something she wasn't before. 

She shares her thoughts and feelings 

both in ink and in tongue. 

She reflects; staining the page 

with the most kick-in-the-gut honesty  

- a poignancy a lot of writers 

can only dream of having. 

She has learned that instead of 

hurting ourselves, 

we can scar the page -  

burn it, 

screw it up and throw away 

all the pain we feel inside. 

We can't rewrite the past 

but if we reach deep inside

and accept where we went wrong, 

we can heal. We can start again. 

I want you to know that 

you're wise beyond your years. 

I want you to know that I admire 

your ability to hold your hands up 

and understand where you went wrong 

without blaming those who let you down. 

There is not once trace of bitterness 

inside that huge heart of yours, 

nor is there a chip on either shoulder. 

You taught me that freedom isn't 

as black and white as I always thought; 

you showed me there are different types 

of freedom too. 

You've taught me how to fight through

adversity with a huge amount of courage. 

You have an incredible amount of 

strength and resilience 

- something I admire, 

and your passion for learning 

this craft, your passion for words,

makes me want to become

a better writer too

so that I can continue to instil 

that same love for words in others 

who need to learn a way to rid 

themselves of the darkness 

you so often struggle with. 

You never accept the darkness is 

forever black. 

You take each day as it comes. 

I want you to remember this: 

When those black days come, 

hang the moon with your words, 

give yourself 

light in the void. 

It has been a complete 

honor to get to know you 

and to teach you, 

to grow with you. 

This is not the end of 

our journey, 

this is just the end of 

one of the most poignant 

chapters I've ever written 

in my life. 

We have many more 

to scrawl together. 

When you are released

(not if!) 

you have opportunities 

with us. 

I know you find 

trust hard, 

I know you build walls 

higher than those 

right outside your window, 

but you've let us in 

and given us at least a little trust, 

and that touches my heart 

- I won't ever abuse that. 

I hope that we have left a mark 

upon your pen 

like you have upon our lives. 

From me to you, 

good luck, 

keep improving, 

and we'll see you sooner than you think... 

17
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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Squeakypeewee and Me
The day we first met, 
wasn't the day of our first group. 
It was the day we were 
expected 
to introduce who we are
and what we do. 
To share with you all
what writing has done for us, 
and what we believe writing 
could do for you. 
I remember seeing you there, 
sat alone, 
in the corner of the most 
sacred room
- the library. 
The freest part of 
a place that has the sole 
purpose of restraining 
- keeping you locked up.
The prison library
allows minds to wander 
past the physical realm 
into the realms of imagination; 
far beyond the bars and 
concrete walls, 
and it is there that I noticed you. 
You were a little out of place 
- a young woman 
sat in a library that, 
at the time, 
was full of people twenty years 
older. 
If I remember right, 
it was some club for 
the older residents. 
You sat intently listening 
to what I thought was a 
wobbly voice coming 
from my dry mouth. 
We spoke to you all
about the group and what 
it entailed, then left. 
Week one of the group, 
you were there. 
Shy. Reserved. Cautious. 
I could feel your nerves
and I'm sure you could feel mine. 
You told us, 
"I don't like poetry, I don't want to write it, 
oh, and you're not going to make me 
read aloud are you?" 
It was just you and another, 
until a few weeks later. 
We didn't push you to begin with.
The first few tasks had you writing 
about what you know. You. 
Your routine, what makes you, you. 
We didn't ask why you were there, 
it didn't matter to us. 
Week two was when I knew. 
Reading your seven day diary 
(a task set on the first week) 
opened my eyes to what you 
were capable of. 
The irony of this is that 
your uniqueness comes from your 
brutal honesty. The truths that you 
smear across each page. 
It was from that moment 
that I knew, we all knew, 
you had talent beyond diarising 
and story telling. 
With your words you can 
alter the readers' emotions; 
which is hard to achieve. 
Fast forward to today. 
- forty-two weeks, 
almost forty-three. 
You have one group left 
with us
before you move to a new prison,
a new horizon where 
your sun may one day rise 
in a room beyond the bars, 
where you can taste freedom
and finally begin to see 
how incredibly far you have come. 
I personally have seen a huge 
change in you over forty-three weeks. 
You have grown so much 
and that's the purpose of this poem. 
To tell you how fucking proud I am 
of you. 
I can't let you go from this prison 
before telling you what you've achieved 
along with what you've taught me. 
I think we all should hear those things 
from time to time. 
Just don't go getting all big-headed, okay? 
The girl we met all those weeks ago
now loves to write poetry
(haiku's particularly),
she volunteers to read aloud 
to a group that has sometimes 
reached sixteen members in total. 
She is sociable. Something she wasn't before. 
She shares her thoughts and feelings 
both in ink and in tongue. 
She reflects; staining the page 
with the most kick-in-the-gut honesty  
- a poignancy a lot of writers 
can only dream of having. 
She has learned that instead of 
hurting ourselves, 
we can scar the page -  
burn it, 
screw it up and throw away 
all the pain we feel inside. 
We can't rewrite the past 
but if we reach deep inside
and accept where we went wrong, 
we can heal. We can start again. 
I want you to know that 
you're wise beyond your years. 
I want you to know that I admire 
your ability to hold your hands up 
and understand where you went wrong 
without blaming those who let you down. 
There is not once trace of bitterness 
inside that huge heart of yours, 
nor is there a chip on either shoulder. 
You taught me that freedom isn't 
as black and white as I always thought; 
you showed me there are different types 
of freedom too. 
You've taught me how to fight through
adversity with a huge amount of courage. 
You have an incredible amount of 
strength and resilience 
- something I admire, 
and your passion for learning 
this craft, your passion for words,
makes me want to become
a better writer too
so that I can continue to instil 
that same love for words in others 
who need to learn a way to rid 
themselves of the darkness 
you so often struggle with. 
You never accept the darkness is 
forever black. 
You take each day as it comes. 
I want you to remember this: 
When those black days come, 
hang the moon with your words, 
give yourself 
light in the void. 
It has been a complete 
honor to get to know you 
and to teach you, 
to grow with you. 
This is not the end of 
our journey, 
this is just the end of 
one of the most poignant 
chapters I've ever written 
in my life. 
We have many more 
to scrawl together. 
When you are released
(not if!) 
you have opportunities 
with us. 
I know you find 
trust hard, 
I know you build walls 
higher than those 
right outside your window, 
but you've let us in 
and given us at least a little trust, 
and that touches my heart 
- I won't ever abuse that. 
I hope that we have left a mark 
upon your pen 
like you have upon our lives. 
From me to you, 
good luck, 
keep improving, 
and we'll see you sooner than you think... 
#poetry  #thankyou  #Itslit  #FromMeToYou  #PIP 
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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Fuck Judgement

You know what?
I'm sick of your shit
Your convoluted mind
All this damn nonsense 
There's nothing wrong with you!
It's just fucking stress
Anxiety disorder?
Ha!
There is no such thing!
Attention demanding?
Now that sounds more like it

Fuck you and your ignorance 
Shame that isn't a disorder 
You'd be severely blind 
With your lack of sensitivity 
- Any idea 
How your shit makes me feel? 
I have anxiety 
And you have no heart

You point the finger of ignorance
But your aim is off 
Point at yourself, fool
Always unsettled 
- Pacing 
Ridiculous worry 
Over such trivial things
How stupid is that?
Never ending whines 
About life’s stress
- Weakling
We all have stress 
Suck it up like the rest of us

My hands shake
My mind races 
My breath; almost non-existent 
My heart beats so fucking hard 
I'm aware 
Yet out of body 
Watching myself 
Lose myself 
Anxiety - 
Not the only emotion 
Despair 
Panic 
Fear 
A sense of that black cloud 
That has been following me 
For months and months 
Is finally going to rain 
And strike me with 
Pains of lightning 
Take over my ears 
With its roars 
And, fuck, 
I feel like I am 
Going to die. 
Take your criticism and
Your lack of support 
- Your apathetic nature 
Proves you'll never 
Get anxiety 
Or panic 
Because you have to actually 
Feel, 
To be able to feel 
The way I do.

You're kidding me right?
That sounds so lame
A bit of worry 
Makes you shiver and quake
Silly thoughts of 
What ifs; could be's 
Gifts you out of body 
- Ghostly
Paranormal shit 
A childish fear; turns ominous 
Breathing death down your spine
C’mon
Admit it - 
It's all in your head
Stop thinking bad thoughts
Just take some deep breaths
It's simple
Calm the fuck down! 
Why do you do this?
When everything 
Will be fine
Or just keep this shit up
- Exaggerate 
Make yourself sick with dread
You’re so thick headed 
Refusing to help yourself
Relying on this charade
To use as a crutch
- Ha! 
I bet you make it all up
Just a masquerade 
To get your foot in that door
But Doctor, Please
Just give me some pills 
I’m too fragile 
Can't cope
My face bears no smiles 
Unless I'm jacked up on dope

If that makes me lame 
Then it makes you a cunt 
Try a bit of understanding 
A least I'm being upfront 
It takes courage to talk 
About the scribbles 
In my soul 
Their tangles make me 
Feel desolate 
Alone. 
All in my mind? 
I really wish it was 
Did you not listen
When I told you 
How it affects my 
Shell? 
Yes, I said shell, 
Because that's all I am
A home for the 
Anguish 
A place for the
Panic 
Jacked up on dope? 
Get a fucking heart 
Do you realise it's 
A chemical imbalance 
That leaves my 
Brain askew? 
Try asking how you can help 
Or don't. 
Fuck you.

I do have a heart
This just doesn't make sense
I mean 
You have to admit
Some claims that you
Made - 
Paradoxical shit at best
Floating out of 
Your body?
Staring at yourself 
From above?
Detective Mulder
Or Agent Scully
Might believe this wild shit
But this isn't
The X-Files 
And Bigfoot doesn't exist
What you don't get
Is that I do want to help!
I tried getting answers
Spent hours online
Scrolling for truth 
But site after site 
Contradicting the last
This one says this
Next one says that
Enigmatic questions
No solid 
Answers 
You're not the only
One in despair
Helpless 
Confused
All of this 
Is affecting me too

You say you've looked online 
And found conflicting information 
But anxiety 
Manifests 
In so many different ways
- What I don't understand 
Is why you didn't ask me
To try to explain 
How I feel
Help me untie
My tongue 
That's all I've ever needed
Is for you to try and understand 
The noise in my body 
The deafening terror in my brain
I don't need words 
Please don't tell me to
Calm down 
Relax 
It's all in my head 
Put your hand on my shoulder 
Ground me 
Talk at me about anything 
Just don't expect a response 
Remind me I'm alive 
Here, in this space 
Don't get frustrated 
Angry 
Don't get in my face 
Approach me with 
A gentle hand
And heart 
Show me you care 
With compassion 
Tell me we'll get through 
This together. 
Don't judge 
Don't make me feel 
Like I make it all up
Help me set goals 
And make sure I know
If I don't make them
It's okay
It's just a blip 
I'll live to try 
Another day...

Collaboration with the lovely @Lish.

22
11
19
Juice
168 reads
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Juice
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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Fuck Judgement
You know what?
I'm sick of your shit
Your convoluted mind
All this damn nonsense 
There's nothing wrong with you!
It's just fucking stress
Anxiety disorder?
Ha!
There is no such thing!
Attention demanding?
Now that sounds more like it

Fuck you and your ignorance 
Shame that isn't a disorder 
You'd be severely blind 
With your lack of sensitivity 
- Any idea 
How your shit makes me feel? 
I have anxiety 
And you have no heart

You point the finger of ignorance
But your aim is off 
Point at yourself, fool
Always unsettled 
- Pacing 
Ridiculous worry 
Over such trivial things
How stupid is that?
Never ending whines 
About life’s stress
- Weakling
We all have stress 
Suck it up like the rest of us

My hands shake
My mind races 
My breath; almost non-existent 
My heart beats so fucking hard 
I'm aware 
Yet out of body 
Watching myself 
Lose myself 
Anxiety - 
Not the only emotion 
Despair 
Panic 
Fear 
A sense of that black cloud 
That has been following me 
For months and months 
Is finally going to rain 
And strike me with 
Pains of lightning 
Take over my ears 
With its roars 
And, fuck, 
I feel like I am 
Going to die. 
Take your criticism and
Your lack of support 
- Your apathetic nature 
Proves you'll never 
Get anxiety 
Or panic 
Because you have to actually 
Feel, 
To be able to feel 
The way I do.

You're kidding me right?
That sounds so lame
A bit of worry 
Makes you shiver and quake
Silly thoughts of 
What ifs; could be's 
Gifts you out of body 
- Ghostly
Paranormal shit 
A childish fear; turns ominous 
Breathing death down your spine
C’mon
Admit it - 
It's all in your head
Stop thinking bad thoughts
Just take some deep breaths
It's simple
Calm the fuck down! 
Why do you do this?
When everything 
Will be fine
Or just keep this shit up
- Exaggerate 
Make yourself sick with dread
You’re so thick headed 
Refusing to help yourself
Relying on this charade
To use as a crutch
- Ha! 
I bet you make it all up
Just a masquerade 
To get your foot in that door
But Doctor, Please
Just give me some pills 
I’m too fragile 
Can't cope
My face bears no smiles 
Unless I'm jacked up on dope

If that makes me lame 
Then it makes you a cunt 
Try a bit of understanding 
A least I'm being upfront 
It takes courage to talk 
About the scribbles 
In my soul 
Their tangles make me 
Feel desolate 
Alone. 
All in my mind? 
I really wish it was 
Did you not listen
When I told you 
How it affects my 
Shell? 
Yes, I said shell, 
Because that's all I am
A home for the 
Anguish 
A place for the
Panic 
Jacked up on dope? 
Get a fucking heart 
Do you realise it's 
A chemical imbalance 
That leaves my 
Brain askew? 
Try asking how you can help 
Or don't. 
Fuck you.

I do have a heart
This just doesn't make sense
I mean 
You have to admit
Some claims that you
Made - 
Paradoxical shit at best
Floating out of 
Your body?
Staring at yourself 
From above?
Detective Mulder
Or Agent Scully
Might believe this wild shit
But this isn't
The X-Files 
And Bigfoot doesn't exist
What you don't get
Is that I do want to help!
I tried getting answers
Spent hours online
Scrolling for truth 
But site after site 
Contradicting the last
This one says this
Next one says that
Enigmatic questions
No solid 
Answers 
You're not the only
One in despair
Helpless 
Confused
All of this 
Is affecting me too

You say you've looked online 
And found conflicting information 
But anxiety 
Manifests 
In so many different ways
- What I don't understand 
Is why you didn't ask me
To try to explain 
How I feel
Help me untie
My tongue 
That's all I've ever needed
Is for you to try and understand 
The noise in my body 
The deafening terror in my brain
I don't need words 
Please don't tell me to
Calm down 
Relax 
It's all in my head 
Put your hand on my shoulder 
Ground me 
Talk at me about anything 
Just don't expect a response 
Remind me I'm alive 
Here, in this space 
Don't get frustrated 
Angry 
Don't get in my face 
Approach me with 
A gentle hand
And heart 
Show me you care 
With compassion 
Tell me we'll get through 
This together. 
Don't judge 
Don't make me feel 
Like I make it all up
Help me set goals 
And make sure I know
If I don't make them
It's okay
It's just a blip 
I'll live to try 
Another day...


Collaboration with the lovely @Lish.
#poetry  #collaboration  #Itslit  #getlit  #fuckjudgement 
22
11
19
Juice
168 reads
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