May I never fall for the deception of happiness, again.
Convincing me to pursue its direction,
Then leaving me, lost.
May I never fall for its clever disguise.
A beautiful display of what my life could be,
Placing it with my grasp.
Then casually pulling away whenever I try to make it mine,
This fickle thing, you.
Constantly falling for your old tricks,
Knowing exactly what I crave,
Knowing exactly what void I long to fill.
May I never cast my hopes in you, again.
this is a very sensitive topic ive written about. .victim blaming. why didn't you speak up? why didn't you tell anyone? why didn't you resist? why did you do this why did you do that..only people who are not victims of assualt can ask these questions. there is so much insensitivity in people, they are just full of it. it's not easy, it's the hardest fucking thing to do in this world..“speak up” that doesn't guarantee anything, nor justice, nor safety. resist? if your definitions are so black and white, then open your eye...kids.. people in relationships.. dubious consent .. to resist, when you don't even know it's wrong ...this society has always favoured the perpetrators, never the victims. each time there's a movement, people work harder to silence it..each time someone wants help, there are more people mocking them..this is a sad place to be..please if someone comes up to you to just talk..listen to them, that's the least anyone of us can do. take care of each other.
TAN SOLO QUIERO
Quiero ser ese niño que un día se hizo hombre,
ese loco bajito que se mete en los charcos,
ese que era feliz con un aro y un palo.
Quiero volver a ver mis primeras palabras
el talco entre las sábanas,
el tierno sonajero
que mi llanto callaba
ruedas de cascabeles
que mi día anunciaban.
Quiero ser el chupete de dulce caramelo,
ese que no se acaba
pues morderlo no puedo,
que se te llevan lejos
esas manos que traen
el amor en su seno
que te hacen sentir limpio
te renuevan completo,
para volver a darte con frescor perfumado
ese sabor a fresa
para verte contento.
Hoy quiero gatear,
tirar del mantel fuerte
para ver como caen
los cubiertos al suelo,
quiero ser ese niño que perseguía un sueño
ser el adolescente que abandonó sus juegos
para empezar a andar por un camino nuevo.
Un sendero de signos y de cuerdas de acero,
diapasones de ébano,
de palisandro indio,
ese barniz que brilla
cuando la luz acerco.
Quiero ser ese hombre que ha cambiado su vida,
ese escritor nocturno
que fuma en su cocina,
el que amanece pronto,
el que escribe sin tinta,
ese olor a café que dirige su pluma.
Solo quiero ser yo
un hombre enamorado,
el que respira paz,
el que duerme tranquilo.
Soy ese niño grande que un día se dio cuenta
que el reclamar ayuda no es ninguna deshonra
solo es rehacer tu mundo
cuando se desmorona. Miguel Ángel Poeta Namasté
(Reservados derechos de autor)2016
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60512 hours ago
like vagrants at a burn barrel, our impetuous hands return every night... to set the mood, we salt the earth with ingenious crotch shots. at the premium channel of her viral epitaph, i pledge apocryphal safe words. however, her merciless dubstep reduces my heartfelt poetry to balls deep mumbo jumbo. by the precise coincidence of superior mechanical effort, my cuckoo clock conquers her military time zone. at zero dark thirty, the criminal record she handcuffs to my spanking hot fingerprint analysis induces a red carpet to explode from my quivering panic room. suffering is the poor man's aphrodisiac and our self defeating passion falls well below the poverty line. for posterity's sake, i utilize my backwater survival instincts to stock her drowning pool with newborn cannon fodder. the operating strength of her labia is a cozy straitjacket and when she ties my knot the heavens rain pretzels. i insure our pathological ecstasy will never be reproduced whence i bury her toxic womb in a futuristic potter's field (and) make elegant worm food of her purple clit. i prolong her agonized fuck face with astronomical head games, then, in the garish humidity of famous last words, before vanishing, i profane her ancient ruins. with outrageous ardor, she searches for my infamous disco ball. the splat of her sultry teardrops bongo like war drums on my circumcised helmet. to taunt her multi-dimensional wrath, i slide meticulous rainbows into her muddy self refraction. for a radius of myriad occasions, she staples xeroxes of my exaggerated penis onto anatomical flag poles, while i twiddle thumbs in the subliminal ether, confounding her confrontational stalk with knockoff treasure maps stenciled by the flicker of lodestars made disreputable by the adversarial parallax of siamese cyclops. to this day, she bloats my syringe with terminal vacuoles.