Flowers buried deep
Rooted in her skin
Growing in her sunlight
Drowning in her rain
A scattering
Of dandelion seeds
Left to thrive
In a local park
Popping up and out
Turned away from the ground
Face to the sun
Everyone wonders
Where we come from

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
They told her
As she dug her fingernails deep into her skin
Like her flesh was made out of playdoh
In the uncautious hands of a toddler.
Her life balances dangerously on her tongue,
steadied only by a love she will not swallow
For she has been told
“Too much sugar will rot your teeth.”

Kneel before me at your white porcelain altar.
Sacrifice the bits of pieces you had stashed away inside,
Place them inside the holy not holy water.
Watch each piece and place where they were from.
Sacrifice to me
For I am your goddess.

Your martyrdom will be known throughout
For you died for the lives of animals, for their rights to live
By being staked- refusing steak
Not for the 679 other reasons you decided to say no.
Die a martyr for me
For I am your goddess.

Wear red rubies along your wrists.
No one will ask where they’re from or how long you’ve had them
But they will shake in fear for this rosary- your rosy cheeks
Is as holy as the blood I too have shed for you.
Bear my symbol
For I am your goddess

Do not fear the day I come to meet you at the gates.
Stand in your doorway arms outstretched.
Await me for I await- will weigh you.
Sleep at night and dream of my loving embrace
and my second coming,
For I am your goddess

Feel my not hands touch your not waist
And my not lips kiss your not face
For this is not me and this has never been you
Because you are a child
And I am a goddess

comes and goes with her symphony
everyday wears red lipstick
make new friends kindly
shows her compassion widely
I call her a charismatic
night calls her a star
shining behind the big moon
all above is about Neda joon

Nedā

You died in protest in Iran. Āghā-Soltān age 26. Your death caught on camera. In the wrong place at the wrong time. Sent around the world. Condemning the Iranian government led by the mad man Ahmadinejabd. Your fellow country people said they were called your name. We are Nedā. Your death was one of the most witnessed in history due to television and the internet.
Human Rights Watch said:
"She was a philosophy student who was a bystander to the protests when she was shot in the chest on Kargar Street. At the time of the shooting, Āghā-Soltān was not actively protesting, according to her relatives and eyewitnesses. She had been travelling in a private car stuck in traffic several kilometres from the main protests at Azadi Square, and had just stepped out of the car. Numerous witnesses have stated that there were no active clashes between protesters and security forces in the area where she was shot."
Your years of study over, stolen by an assassin's bullet. Unable to live your life, follow your dreams and contribute to life. But in death, you Nedā, won't be forgotten. You stand for freedom, life and against tyranny. Music was your love, you never did play your new piano. Stolen by that evil bullet allegedly fired by Abbās Kārgar Jāvid, member of the Basij militia. Symbolizing the people versus the government in the disputed election. Government authorities denied you a proper funeral and a ban on collective prayers after your ******, threatening your family if they mourned you. Evil actions by an evil government, like ****** or Stalin's evil way. Nothing but brutality. You Nedā are the opposite of that.

That was the summer our electric bill went up
because as soon as the sun went down
I would light up mirrors
that I stared down for hours
in hopes that I would lose

My self esteem
with every inch I lost
from my arms, legs, fingers, chest,
but if I could just take a few more
from my waist then I would be

Mentally unstable and out of control
as I stay in line with 1,200 calorie days
and sit-ups before bed
because a coworker offered me a cookie
and I couldn't say

No one should have to feel like they're dying
in order to feel beautiful
but how can you fly
when your wings are too heavy
to get off the

Ground level is where I am right now
but at this point I'm used
to taking the stairs
so the top doesn't look
too far away anymore

Not poetry.

But please read? It's important. I promise.

http://32ozofgoodness.blogspot.com/2015/02/i-had-no-idea-taking-my-life-back-from.html