Sammielee46
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Prose Admin. Writer. Marketer. Social Media. Making things happen since '87
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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

his choice

castrate the things that curse your heart

halve the hurt, let it go and start

attune yourself to your inner song

make music - put the notes where they belong

piece together the torn pages

ink blotches greyed throughout the ages

open your eyes to their disguise

no more hello's, just final goodbyes

nighttime is long when the bed is bare

owls' hoots remind that you are not there

inside i've cried but my eyes are bone dry

prostituting my soul; a stunted butterfly

make do with what i have, chase my dreams alone

after all is said and done, he's the one without his home

home is where the heart is, and his heart belongs to me

choices were his to make, he's the prisoner, i am free...

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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
his choice
castrate the things that curse your heart
halve the hurt, let it go and start
attune yourself to your inner song
make music - put the notes where they belong
piece together the torn pages
ink blotches greyed throughout the ages
open your eyes to their disguise
no more hello's, just final goodbyes

nighttime is long when the bed is bare
owls' hoots remind that you are not there
inside i've cried but my eyes are bone dry
prostituting my soul; a stunted butterfly
make do with what i have, chase my dreams alone
after all is said and done, he's the one without his home
home is where the heart is, and his heart belongs to me
choices were his to make, he's the prisoner, i am free...
#poetry  #rhyme  #acrostic  #amwriting  #Itslit 
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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

just hurt

he said he was sorry that i was hurting

if only i could just ‘hurt’

it would be better than this agony i feel

if hurting is feeling like your insides

are disintegrating beneath your tatty skin -

if it feels like bile is burning my heart

causing calcification

emaciation

then, yes. i hurt.

he said he was sorry he made me hurt

if only he could see my sorrow,

- my body convulsing with pain

whilst i curl into the fetal position

making myself small

knowing i couldn’t ever make myself

as microscopic as he made me feel

and yet, this is only hurt.

he said he never meant to make me feel hurt

yet he doesn’t see the scars etched upon my soul

those sacred scribbles that salute the self-loathing

i once banished

but, i only hurt.

i am so hurt, i am muted

my voice stuck in my throat

not knowing whether my song will sing

or if it’ll come out in tormented screams

echoing through the stagnant air,

because since he stopped loving me, seeing me,

fuck, since he stopped being my oxygen

the air is stale and i wish i didn’t have to breathe it in.

but it’s just hurt.

if it’s only hurt

then why does every song i hear

weep alongside me?

if it’s only hurt,

why do i feel like the world

should stop spinning immediately

and let me off this plane

before i jump

before he lets me jump

and doesn’t catch me at the bottom?

if me crying tears of blood

red with the pain that i try to shed

but the pools never run dry, they’re plentiful.

if all of the above, is just hurt

give me the gun, i’ll pull the trigger myself.

i can’t imagine feeling any more hurt

than I do in this moment.

yet, i just hurt.

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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
just hurt
he said he was sorry that i was hurting
if only i could just ‘hurt’
it would be better than this agony i feel
if hurting is feeling like your insides
are disintegrating beneath your tatty skin -
if it feels like bile is burning my heart
causing calcification
emaciation
then, yes. i hurt.

he said he was sorry he made me hurt
if only he could see my sorrow,
- my body convulsing with pain
whilst i curl into the fetal position
making myself small
knowing i couldn’t ever make myself
as microscopic as he made me feel
and yet, this is only hurt.

he said he never meant to make me feel hurt
yet he doesn’t see the scars etched upon my soul
those sacred scribbles that salute the self-loathing
i once banished
but, i only hurt.

i am so hurt, i am muted
my voice stuck in my throat
not knowing whether my song will sing
or if it’ll come out in tormented screams
echoing through the stagnant air,
because since he stopped loving me, seeing me,
fuck, since he stopped being my oxygen
the air is stale and i wish i didn’t have to breathe it in.
but it’s just hurt.

if it’s only hurt
then why does every song i hear
weep alongside me?
if it’s only hurt,
why do i feel like the world
should stop spinning immediately
and let me off this plane
before i jump
before he lets me jump
and doesn’t catch me at the bottom?
if me crying tears of blood
red with the pain that i try to shed
but the pools never run dry, they’re plentiful.
if all of the above, is just hurt
give me the gun, i’ll pull the trigger myself.
i can’t imagine feeling any more hurt
than I do in this moment.
yet, i just hurt.
#poetry  #amwriting  #Itslit  #getlit  #sneakpeek 
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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

you without me

without you and me

there is no we

there's no us

no future, or

eternity

love is free

it's serenity

but it's not ours

it's yours

that's plain to see

gravity

brought me

to you

under skies of blue

in a park with a view

benches, birds

- squirrels too

but it was all a lie

to paper the cracks

formed within an inky sky

with the most oft phrase spoken

not i love you,

but goodbye

smiles

reaching the eyes

they stopped,

replaced by tears

sadness, sorrow

building fears

in the bowels of the weak

the weeds grew

the bluebells knew

that the nature to nuture

had expired

and they were tired

of fighting for life

amidst the weeds that overrun

their meadow

so, they bowed their heads

and wept with the willow

whose tears formed

a lake of loss

we don't drown together

i drown alone

with cement in my boots

and mourning in my heart

never to float on our love

i stay saturated by suffering

and won't ever surface again...

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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
you without me
without you and me
there is no we
there's no us
no future, or
eternity

love is free
it's serenity
but it's not ours
it's yours
that's plain to see

gravity
brought me
to you
under skies of blue
in a park with a view
benches, birds
- squirrels too

but it was all a lie
to paper the cracks
formed within an inky sky
with the most oft phrase spoken
not i love you,
but goodbye

smiles
reaching the eyes
they stopped,
replaced by tears
sadness, sorrow
building fears
in the bowels of the weak

the weeds grew
the bluebells knew
that the nature to nuture
had expired
and they were tired
of fighting for life
amidst the weeds that overrun
their meadow
so, they bowed their heads
and wept with the willow
whose tears formed
a lake of loss

we don't drown together
i drown alone
with cement in my boots
and mourning in my heart
never to float on our love
i stay saturated by suffering
and won't ever surface again...
#poetry  #freeverse  #Itslit  #getlit  #sneekpeak 
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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

something stupid

i did something stupid
the other day,

my pain was a knot

so i cut it free

i carved the pain

away and watched it bleed
it ran away

down my leg

and puddled upon the floor
claret

thick

dark

i could smell the metal
twang of a heart that

sung its sorrows

and cursed the hand that crushed it
i watched the nurse

with her thread stitch the skin
real tight

and wished it was a metaphor
for you repairing the heart
you broke in two

– multiplied by the power
of heartbreak

but once the wound was closed
my pain just wound tighter
than the cords used to knit together
the etches that wanted to sing
i did something stupid today,
i unwound the ties that held me together
and i sit watching them release the pressure
that's built up inside me
punishing myself

purging the sorrow

hoping that one day

not now, not tomorrow
the sadness will subside
the blood will have dried
each platelet will have cried
its last tear

i did something stupid the other day
i asked for help

i was scared

ill-prepared

but fear is something i

no longer flee

i did something right today
took the threaded-cotton away
drain the pain

setting me free...

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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
something stupid
i did something stupid
the other day,
my pain was a knot
so i cut it free
i carved the pain
away and watched it bleed
it ran away
down my leg
and puddled upon the floor
claret
thick
dark
i could smell the metal
twang of a heart that
sung its sorrows
and cursed the hand that crushed it
i watched the nurse
with her thread stitch the skin
real tight
and wished it was a metaphor
for you repairing the heart
you broke in two
– multiplied by the power
of heartbreak
but once the wound was closed
my pain just wound tighter
than the cords used to knit together
the etches that wanted to sing
i did something stupid today,
i unwound the ties that held me together
and i sit watching them release the pressure
that's built up inside me
punishing myself
purging the sorrow
hoping that one day
not now, not tomorrow
the sadness will subside
the blood will have dried
each platelet will have cried
its last tear
i did something stupid the other day
i asked for help
i was scared
ill-prepared
but fear is something i
no longer flee
i did something right today
took the threaded-cotton away
drain the pain
setting me free...
#poetry  #Itslit  #getlit  #sneakpeek 
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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...

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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 
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6
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