White collared men in pinstripe suits sit casually across from one another,
completely indifferent.
They discuss ways to obtain power and how to silence the opposition.
The opposition being women.
Power being the rights to our own bodies.
These are the men who make laws against abortion to disguise their ulterior motives.
Trump’s America they call it.
Where belittling women is somehow a “trend”,
Where this type of thing has become “okay”.
Where the women’s rights movement has been threatened time and time again.
All of this,
In efforts to silence our war cries.
But here’s the thing about us that even history seems to have forgotten.
We Are Women.
Our mothers have been crafting our battle armour since before we were born.
Gave it to us the day we were first interrupted in the middle of a sentence.
They told us to be brave, to be bold, to be unapologetic.
To speak our truth and remain strong even when we feel utterly defeated.
You see,
We don’t really do submissive.
Won’t sit back and let you do as you please.
Rather,
we’ll continue to challenge your authority.
Make you wish you kept your laws off our bodies in the first place.
To those who continue to undermine our capability,
I say to you this.
This body, is my own.
This body, is power.
In fact,
I don’t blame you for being afraid.
Because you and I both know that this body is capable of things so extraordinary that only God Himself can envision them.
You can try to silence us,
To take away our voice.
But we will only grow stronger,
Grow louder.
Angrier.
You will hear us
And you will listen.
My body,
My rules.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 9:19 PM UTC
I'm losing pieces of myself in places I don't know my way back to.
I often wonder who I once was,
what it was like to be something other than an barren land.
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC
home-like body,
could never find a suitable tenant who wished to stay there.
they often complained about the heating.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 8:01 PM UTC
i wonder where your heart lies.
have a feeling it lays upon the ocean floor,
waiting for someone like me.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 7:21 PM UTC
i am an abandoned house with too many windows.
fragile frame.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
my heart is a treasure chest-
so valuable, pirates and sailors alike would risk their lives trying to
find it.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 7:12 PM UTC
Hidden behind transparent looking glasses,
she chases red rabbits with ticking hands.
When she nears them,
she feels the wings beneath her bones awakening from their chronic slumber and her hands suddenly burn with the memory of what it’s like to familiarize.
Empty mailboxes and ink stained fingers;
her eyes furiously avoid the image of her palms.
One pair will never be enough.
The door to her conscious transforms into an empty battlefield.
Listen close and hear only the tangled whispers of her former lovers,
for it was they who birthed this war beneath her skin.
Angst trickles slowly into her chest,
filling the new found void.
She had learned to love her temple.
Saw a friendly face every time she encountered her reflection;
understood why it was important to reach this nirvana first.
But like the fostered youth,
there are only so many times one can take back their unwanted pieces without losing them all entirely.
Blue heart beating silently,
she awaits the season where all her colours will change.
Fall.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC
The soul of a writer is as tormented as the clash of tides in the sea.
There is an ongoing battle between what is right and what is wrong.
The writer's mind experiences an unexplainable turmoil of raging emotions.
There is no escape from the cages that surround the heart except for writing... writing till the words bleed with truth.
Till the colour of the ink becomes the colour of their soul.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife:
Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art:
I warm'd both hands before the fire of Life;
It sinks; and I am ready to depart.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 5:28 PM UTC