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Kimberley Leiser Aug 2014
I can remember that first encounter. He was a man in his early thirties, bright eyes but with a dark grin and was smoking your cigars wearing a black hat and he was also carrying a guitar. He was here to show me how to strum an few chords.

I remember him distinctively saying...

"Guitar playing I am about to teach you is really the same as love making you know?"

I  laughed and blankly said
"but how so?"

" Well... (grinning)
Each string has to be carefully plucked, and contains a different  sensation and vibe if you mishandle the strings that final note will sound awful.

He was showing me how to re-tune and play a few chords which were C, D and G then pass me over the guitar back to me.
"Its your turn dear, and be really gentle"

While doing this and playing the first few chords of the guitar which was D I could feel him rub my shoulders and chest gently.
"Don't worry you can trust me, I was just loosening you up we can't have you feeling tense"
"Now, show me a G"

I begin to play the chord G while doing that he then grasped firmly on my other hand : I can feel a surge of heat from his hands firing up my fingers. This heat was making its way to my chest. He now caressed and circled around the chest and then higher up to my *****. I can feel his breath and his tongue swirling and stretching out to **** on my *******.

"Okay ... final note play me a C"

I crouch down to the floor and begin to strum that final chord and can then feel him stretch his hands beneath my skirt I could feel the sensations further of his fingers strumming my ***** in the same rhythmic motions of his guitar previously.

"See what I said? music playing really is the same as love making"
"I nodded and said yeah I suppose"

A bit shaken and uncertain how to respond but he kept whispering into my ear and repeating that same line: while kissing me on my cheeks, stroking me up and down in circular motions in which I could feel a tense feeling of release and then silence again

Was that the final note?
Governors,
Mayors,
Policemen,
Night keepers,
Men folk and all of you
On the crest of powers that be
Don’t brutalize prostitutes,
Nor mishandle ******,
Or terrorize harlots,

They were born natural
Innocent and callow
With plain white brains
Not tainted with any miss-morals,
Genuine in hearts
And humane in the genesis,

Until they grew up
Beyond father and mother
Clan and relatives,
Into the realm of money civilizations,
Where man and woman,
Must sell to survive,
Sell the wares of trade,
Commodities and tools of work,
Where men sell labour of their arms
To those crafty buyers,
And women sell smiles,
And the ******* of their *****,
To serve vice of man
In the glory of warped thought,

Prostitutes have no tribe,
Neither class nor race,
They have no permanent foe
Nor permanent friend,
They have no permanent memory,
Their love is devoid of logic,
They love most but fickle,
Where they make no money
And love least but with nostalgia
where they make money,
So don’t brutalize them,

Only love them,
Pay them,
Kiss them fondly
And sing to them,
Lyrical songs of love,
Sent them to lull and slumber
With your sensuous ******
Of their ******* fountains,
Both male and female
****** of your rendezvous.
RisingUp Nov 2015
If you look closely

You will see

The cracks and fault lines

That comprise me

From the outside, to the unattuned eye

I look like a normal vase,

For the glue is now dry.

Truth be told

I was smashed

Obliterated

Pieces essential to my core

Strewn haphazardly across the floor.

But thanks to those that saw me,

And a little internal conviction.

My pieces have been collected

My old form resurrected.

Thanks to a little glue

I appear to be almost brand new.

But don't be deceived

For what you perceive

Should not be completely believed.

For the vase is very fragile,

Not to be toyed with.

Not a player's game.

Please don't mishandle me,

And resurface days of misery.
Crystal Freda Aug 2017
Grapes on a vine.
Lilacs in a field.
Purple is so divine.
Purple is so real.

Violet in her eyes.
Lavender in a candle.
Purple is a sweet surprise.
It's hard to mishandle.

Sea urchins in the sea.
Sea shells on the shore.
Purple is the color of royalty.
Purple is so much more.

Purple is in the pen that writes.
Writing words so bright.
Purple are the wings of a butterfly.
Spreading its wings so high.

Purple is the dress she wears.
Purple is a color that cares.
Purple is loyalty.
Purple is what describes me.
I love purple.
farhan May 2019
I have few mugs
Porcelain mugs
All alike, same in color
I pick one and prepare coffee
Cannot distinguish the one used before
All were alike, same in color
I wish to make one my favorite
But any mark I make would be artificial
How I wish? A natural mark would separate one
Today I observed one with a slight difference
A minor crack at the brim
The mugs are washed
A mishandle would have caused
It is not ugly
It is no less useful
Naturally made, just a slight crack
Now both useful and notable
It is now my favorite mug
True for humans isn't it? We are all usually alike. A slight inconsistency separates us from the crowd. So long as we are useful and and not ugly from within.
River Elise Nov 2010
I ached for this small, wrapped heart almost completely crushed yet happy.
It looks to me like some sort of baby, wiggling.
Comes with a mother who's senseless. An anemic queen.

The heart is tearing, it is crumbling.
I have to nurse it in my chest but I cannot keep from touching it.
All the blood is sick. I am too dizzy to walk.
There is no transplant, no giving it away.

I hold this heart in my fist.
It is shivering, completely terrified, with its deaf hum.
Backing into my palms. Bright red, deep maroon.

How do I save you love?
It's your death thats drawing me to you.
That declining beat.
Just like a sore rythm, along with my breathing.

I wonder if you'll ever rest.
So I stare inside its little hole.
If I could throw you into the sea, the mermaid that will rescue you
will open up your eyes.

She may mishandle you,
in your casket of silk freeze.
I cannot, will not watch you.
I know you were never that happy with me.
Lunar Dec 2014
Broken people are beautiful. Their shattered parts are clear. You can observe and see what's in their minds. And their rough, edgy sides... oh, the excitement to discover! Those large pieces of them -- you can probably hug the life out of it. The smaller portions can easily hide and wait for you to seek it.

But take caution: Once you mishandle them, you'll get a cut.
Liz Sep 2016
I'm too tired to look up
From my hands.
On them I see pictures
Like movies
Playing scenes I know i've seen.

My hands remind me of things
That once entranced me
But now seem like distant memories.
Memories that don't even
Belong to me.

Now the silent films
I watch on my palms
Hold me hypnotized.
Almost like the things
I watch on my hands
Which enamored me before.

But now my eyes
Have grown exceptionally heavy.
I can't divert my gaze
To any other projection
Or distraction.

My eyes are locked.
Stuck watching me
Mishandle myself without consideration
For the life that burned in me.

All i can do
is wait for my
eyes to close.
hopefully soon
Charlie Hudson May 2015
The sun wept for the moon,
but the moon did all but try.
And come every noon,
the sun would die.

Her light burning out,
like a candle.
but the moon would glout,
for him to mishandle
such a beauty was a sight
for sore eyes.

The clouds would cover her light
but her cries,
could never be heard above her madness.
Her face contorted,
her eyes pools of vastness.
Kaitlin Collide Feb 2016
Secrets kept
Led to nights spent wept
I could **** a person
But somehow this is more personal to you than death
How selfish of you
But that message will never get through
So I carry on bruised
By social irrationality..
You ask for my story, you feel entitled to it all
But I muffle it all with the misleading sentence "I'm hurt."

You see it seems romantic..
You asking if I'm okay
Wanting to know where I got my edge--
But the answer will be the death of us..
And you'll never fully understand..
And a jaded view of what I've been through will only taint my life's understanding

I'm not ready to see that side of you..
The one that tells me you're not the exception to the rule
A rule that shouldn't even exist.

You aren't ready
And I can't risk letting the foundation of my fears,
this thing that has changed me,
Be leaked into that society to become novel gossip
and merits for scorn.
Despite what we've learned from history about irrational opposition and shame,
Our society still isn't mature enough to handle this with care.
They will mishandle my substance
Because what's a thousand pounds heavy to me
Is paper airplanes to all of you
Ready to be tossed around, crushed up, disposable..
But my heart will remain heavy
..And tired.

So the only thing I can truly tell this story to
Is my knees when I'm holding them in,
trying to protect my chest from exploding;
I can share this story with my cheeks
And send tears down them like messengers;
I can tell this story to the shower ground--
It catches me when I can't help but collapse where my cheeks, and my knees rush to my aid like the few friends I trust

I am a liar.
And I need to continue to be a liar,
And I'm sorry to you,
But sorry for me,
And sorry for a society who hasn't given me much of a choice.
Taking my leave, I'll never return
Laugh if you wish, despair or mourn
Either if fine and either is moot
I've broken the rules and dug out my roots
My life was determined in absentee
I'm trashing your world now, so that you see
How dangerous it was to mishandle the Fire
My abused wild mind is like a live wire
Planning a ****** of everything known
Lost seeds of patience you'd carefully sown
Hijacking the towers of social abuse
It went on for centuries as a delayed fuse
I'm taking my leave now,
I've nowhere to go –
But anywhere's better
Than this line toe to toe
you can't escape society. nice to try sometimes tho
devante moore Sep 2020
From myself
Lost in the debts of my own mind
Blessed with gifts mishandle
Strangled by fear of failure
Abducted by violence
Saved by love , Kissed by lust
killed my regrets, Left sadness for dead
Emotions once split
Blended until the lines blurred
Unable to correctly detect which one to feel
Attack by the swarm in my beehive
UnImmune to the stings
Swollen from the venom
Drowned in the honey
Life whizzes by
Liked the wind
When I’m high upon a swing
Landed deep in a maze
Sold my soul to false prophets
Hoping to be saved
Happiness can be addicting
But am I willing
To **** parts of myself
Just to taste the feeling
Abraham Esang Oct 2017
These kids were guaranteed a superior life. Some picked up this.

This is the narrative of the numerous who did not. It is told from a girl's perspective.

No bitterness filled our adolescence days, my folks did their best to raise

their posterity in a climate of care.

We knew they both were English conceived, transported from an existence miserable,

ousted into a halfway house stark.

A stage they'd needed to repudiate, so till this day we had not known

what they and different transients needed to endure.

A mission by some for reward implied ventures to conclusion could start,

with governments and individuals more mindful.

For tribulations of the past, 'Conciliatory sentiments' have come finally

to casualties whom society denied.

Overlooked once they'd left their field, this descendants of country's poor,

no follow up to perceive how they'd survived;

no enthusiasm for these adolescents' predicament – put out of mind when beyond anyone's ability to see –

the balm of greener fields very much plotted.

Two issues understood by their expel. To help grow, the English fashioned

an arrangement affirmed and shrewdly thought up.

For individuals attempting to survive – no aid to keep their young alive –

this offer appeared the solution to their supplication.

They marked their kids to the plan, surrendering to bait of dream,

"They'll 'ave a superior possibility at life down there."

One hundred thousand crossed the ocean, far from home and family

entangled into the predetermination they'd share:

for probably the first time they'd gone, at that point they were lost, quite recently throw away like deny hurled,

also, the individuals who endeavored to contact them confronted give up.

Survival turned out to be lifestyle, these kids compelled to endure strife

created codes of comradeship to bond.

The feeling of mate ship loaned relief, simply small solace to soothe

the weight of facade that each had wore:

for expulsion to south of Earth persuaded them that they had no worth,

conveyed questions and fears excessively crude, making it impossible to ascend past.

Their stoic activities planned to conceal feelings covered somewhere inside -

the requirement for affection, with nobody to react.

The injuries of the evenings alone, far from all that they had known,

apprehensive and detached, set apart,

while during that time of steady drudge at dairy tasks and working soil,

depleted youngsters combat from the begin.

What sins had brought deserting? No news from family or letters sent,

as mail was screened for wrongs it may confer.

Unpaid-for work, benefit based, saw fundamental tutoring soon deleted -

overlooked, similar to the torment inside the heart.

The stories that were never heard, mishandle by discipline and word,

the pole of iron used to keep control

by gatekeepers yet inadequately instructed, responding to their dread, troubled,

lost, and very unsuited to their part.

Cruel hardship ruled through ruthless measures unexplained

to kids deprived of poise. Some stole

the remainders of their confidence with acts more unsafe than disregard -

debased *** that wracked the very soul.

Too long kept secured, concealed ills, with fear and blame such wrongdoing imparts –

refusals, casualties frightened, staying stupid.

Presently at long last the quiet breaks, affirmation of past oversights

uncovering embarrassments unbelieved by a few.

Oh dear, my Father's not any more here. Those times of hardship and of dread

had made his psyche and body capitulate.

In any case, Mum is remaining close by, she's stood up, reestablished some pride,

she's demonstrated the valor that can overcome.

To state we're sad's only a begin to alleviate unsettling influence of the heart.

No word, or deed, or store can adjust

for absence of home and family rights, for work-filled days and dread filled evenings -

this token is too little come past the point of no return.

But my mom feels finally, through acknowledgment of the past

- contrition for the disgrace that was their destiny -

that injuries now cleansed and opened wide, not left to putrefy somewhere inside,

may mean her tormented bad dreams can subside.

Overlooked youngsters - youth lost, still scarred and hurt, awful cost,

spurned, banished, and by all scolded.

To push forward's their exclusive course, on past lament and profound regret,

the revulsion of their childhood should now be recorded.

Bad form has been exposed. My mom's petition is this may

keep the bitterness of some future kid.

Maybe remorse, cruelly earned, may imply that lessons have been educated -

also, with this expectation in heart, my mom grinned.
Sythin Voxe Oct 2020
You'd think I was a fool
The way I mishandle myself
and come to every name you'll call me.

Blinded by the rules
hoping I am worthy enough
to be the same in which you saw me.

To call myself happy i'm afraid
is selling it far short.
I'm rooted on your porch like ivy.

To look at these rings we've made,
spiral out and distort,
Beam the importance of your place beside me.

You could crush me into dust
but I'd still crawl to your lips.
If only to fight you one last war.

You could collide with me just
but when they brush off my ribs
It’ll only leave me wanting more.

I'm sewn into your storms
by God's own shaky hand.
I’m your own divinely made art.

I’m in the spiral that forms
Over the golden red band
I live in the deep blue of your heart.

I will love you more
until the day I die
Until my rings have no balance or grace.

I will drown myself
in that Crimson eye,
Until there's nothing left to drown me but space.
I will love you forever.
Seher Seven Dec 2015
circumstances, misunderstandings
its these delicacies I mishandle.
not much space to be my self.
the water rushes in, my lungs fill.
these pesky circumstances,
wishing telepathics was our shared interest
knowing the path of least reistance.
it is clear and known.
the ram within,
her courage pulls to charge,
born again, shifting of the stars.
where these **** circumstances start.
cause I know what they are,
the objective sensed. senses need fine tunning.
nervous system, tunning. feeling tuned in.
the wind brings the faintest of messages,
listening closely.
zipping out Zs and As, connecting strings
centuries in length.
worlds deep, together receiving the sweetest melody.
in that breeze, where the circumstances pause, briefly, as they sometimes do.
sometimes you just misunderstand me.
a lot of people do.
and I know I just dont get you, either.
circumstamces of the stars, the dance
of the ages. minds infinite expansion.
I just want to span it, crack my set of code.
pay forward, encourage growth.

so much to know, well for the moment you know it.
after that its history, past, authenticated through
your mind, your slice.
oh what it is to be alive! to survive these
circumstances
Mr Tendy May 2020
You
Why can't I get angry at you?
Because you are that part of a tree that can not be touch and can not be overlook too
That part of the sun that can not be reach and can not be ignore
That part of life that can not be removed and can not be mishandle
That part that can not be followed and yet can not be removed from the map because of it true value
How much more can I say that you are that friend that can not be sent off but yet can not be keep back.
That the one word I was looking for that I still can't say, so any idea what the word is to why I can't vex with you?
Was I your prize possession
A trophy on yer mantle
Or just a mule to be flogged
on occasion , an ornery animal to abuse an mishandle
The beaten do return to the whip
Sorry was a slip of the lip
No one knows where ya lie
No marker with religious overtones
No chronological award emblazoned in -
marble
No holiday flowers
Your a memory drowned in a whiskey sour
Copyright March 2 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Vulgar Youth May 2016
So to my daughter,
should any fool mishandle the wild geography of your body,
How it rides a red-running current
Like any good wolf or witch just bleed, Boo
Give that blood a biblical name
Something of stone and mortar
Name it after Eve's first rebellion in that garden
Name it after the last little girl to have her genitals mutilated in Kinshasa
That was this morning .
Give it as many syllables as there are unreported **** cases,
Name the blood something holy,
Something mighty
Something unlanguangeable
Something like the end of the world
Name it for the roar between your legs and the women will not be nameless
Hear,just bleed anyhow
Chris Thomas Aug 2017

Seems that I mishandle patience,
And seems I put mind over matter
Sometimes, you just can't grasp
The concept
Of having nine lives
Until you're on your tenth

Seems apathy is the new homeopathy
And wedding rings seem made of ice
Sometimes, you don't realize
You crave a second chance
At something
Until you're on your tenth

— The End —