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.
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.
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.
forcibly put an end to: the rising was savagely suppressed.
prevent the development, action, or expression of (a feeling, impulse, idea, etc.); restrain:
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.
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
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
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…
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.
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...
"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
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
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
All you've ever known
a life where you're not known,
not the way you should be.
A place where you're not
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,
See, all you have known
for the longest
is my rhythm dancing
hand in hand with
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
forever and a day
for all eternity...
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.
What a fucked up
Way of thinking.
To suggest leaving someone behind
Implies the deceased is moving
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.
Perhaps life is death,
Death, once you're partnered
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
To achieve the big 'O'.
Then we get old.
Cocks stay flaccid
Morning stiffness - the past participle
Men need Viagra,
Women need a miracle,
The only moisture achieved. Ever.
We then begin to wonder
What the fuck life was for.
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?
Orbs of despair drip.
Following the contour of her cheek.
Echoing the bleakness
she holds in her
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
tearing her apart from the
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,
by things that can never
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
that has all but been
The day we first met,
wasn't the day of our first group.
It was the day we were
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,
in the corner of the most
- 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
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
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,
You have one group left
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
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
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
we can scar the page -
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
You take each day as it comes.
I want you to remember this:
When those black days come,
hang the moon with your words,
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
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
you have opportunities
I know you find
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,
and we'll see you sooner than you think...
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.