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 Oct 2016 Wanderer
Sierra Scanlan
“Be gentle.”
The thing about being a woman
is that you are taught to be
gentle
but not how to navigate a world
that will NOT treat you gently.
I’ve spent my life being
Stepped all over
Like a **** doormat.
We’re taught
It’s weak and feminine
To be gentle.
The gentle ones
Are the ones we should truly applaud
For they have found ways
To love
In a world that
Can be
So ugly.
I once hated
How my heart feels
It’s as big as this planet
But I now realize
I can love in ways that
Others can not
And while I may
Have been hurt
Often because of
this, I will embrace it.
It’s a blessing,
Not a curse.


“Don’t raise your voice.”
On Saturday,
my coach told me he could hear me
from where he was standing
and he was feet away.
He meant it as a joke,
I even laughed to hide the hurt.
I’ve been told I’m loud
For most of my life
And everyone always thinks
It’s hilarious to point out
But it’s not.
It ******* hurts.
It gets old being told,
“Lower your voice”
“Be quiet”
“God, you’re so loud”
It’s like a broken record,
One I would like to never
Hear again.
My voice is a loud roar
And it’s powerful.
I won’t apologize
For the way in which
It rings through your ears.
I feel things strongly,
I express it through
My voice.
There is no mute button
And I will be heard.

“You should probably cover up.”
I was 13
The first time I was shamed
For the clothes I wore.
In middle school,
I was stuck in a classroom
With other girls in the school.
Because our shorts were too short.
I felt suffocated.
I wanted to cry.
The walls were bland and gray,
Why me?
There was just no way
I could be in the same space
As a boy
And him be able to control myself
While my legs were out in the open
For him to see.
Like, ****.  
My shirt couldn’t be slouched off my shoulder,
Either.
Because you know that’s what
Really gets boys GOING!
Legs and ******* shoulder blades,
For God’s sake.
We instill these expectations
Into young girl’s minds
Not realizing the damage,
The daggers were throwing
At their little hearts.
I grew older
And I was still being told what to wear.
“Are you sure you should wear that?”
I had to be careful what I wore out
Otherwise a guy may think of it as
Permission to ***** and grab.
I’m not a piece of meat,
I’m not YOUR girl,
I’m not anyone to you
But that doesn’t mean
You shouldn’t respect me
For who I am,
A human being
With feelings.


“Oh, honey… He’s just mean to you because he likes you.”
A boy threw sand at me when I was 7.
It got in my eyes
And all over my new pretty dress.
All I wanted to do was cry but
I was told he did it because he liked me.
We love those who hurt us
Because when we were young
We were told this meant they liked us.
It changes as we grow older,
It’s no longer thrown sand
And playful touches.
It becomes something bigger,
Something scarier than the
Monsters that you thought
Were under your bed.
Loud screams.
Slaps.
Threats.
A black eye here,
A cut there.
You look in the mirror
And you swear you’ve
Never looked more terrible.
A lack of control.
A lack of sleep.
But, but,
He does this
Because he loves me.
Weak and trapped.
You can’t escape
Because he’s all you
Know.
Where do you go?
Love wasn’t supposed to feel like
This.


“She was asking for it.”
She had a bit to drink.
She’s feeling loose and happy.
You complimented her and
Her eyes lit up.
She’s moving closer to you,
Trusting you.
One thing leads to another
And next thing you know,
There you are,
in the bedroom.
She’s not sure if she wants this
But her clothes come off
Quick like a glove.
You’ve got her right where
You want her.
You go with it
Because how could you resist
The twinkle in her eyes
And those thighs?
Things are a bit blurred
For her
And when she realizes what you’ve done,
She’ll feel cheated and robbed
For you stole something so valuable.
Before people
Ask why you did this to her,
They’ll ask what she was wearing
And what she had to drink.
Was her shirt cut low?
Was she drunk?
How unfortunate this is.
Her life will never be
The
Same,
Changed
For…
ever.

I will unapologetically be the woman I am
I will be tough
I will raise my voice
I will wear what makes me love the skin I’m in
I will walk away
I will love myself
I will fight against **** culture
I recently revised this poem, so this is the updated version of my first draft of the poem.
 Oct 2016 Wanderer
JR Rhine
****** Bag in sunglasses
donned indoors where
fluorescent sunlight cannot justify
the obfuscation of haughty eyes
so the visage is one
of pure pretension
and cockiness,
dichotomized
as self-assuredness
and the colloquial term for the phallus,
a literal ****.

(I see him strongly in the memory of a high school field trip returning home school bus late night he sits sideways back to the window head leaning back sunglasses donned smug grin I rendered him the vessel and the scape goat bearing my burning hatred for the inflated ego wrapped in an undesirable chic I deem deplorable, hate hate hate)

Smug grin,
I wrote this poem from a bean bag
in the corner of the library third floor
whilst wearing sunglasses and
a taste of irony
on callous lips
twisted in an invisible sneer.
remember when we laughed
until our ribs hurt on adam’s
street? that was our genesis.

© Matthew Harlovic
 Oct 2016 Wanderer
phil roberts
Magic mollocules
Shall meet and merge at midnight
Halfway between yesterday and tomorrow
Beneath a full and hungry moon
Devouring the darkness of ignorance
As it lights the way
Across the silver shimmering sea
Of dreams that we don't understand
And thus the way shall be found
When thoughts and dreams
And science and imagination
Combine without prejudice
To create our evolution
And it shall not be a physical thing
But a matter of the spirit

                                           By Phil Roberts
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