.

We won't be part of
your social pollution,
but will be part of
the solution.

                                        We are the confrontation
                                                   ­             and the fight,
                                        the declaration
                                                     ­    of human rights.

We won't appeal to
your expectation
or narrow our minds to
your "education".


                                         We are the rebellion,
                                                  your­ red flag of the news,
                                        though toleration
                                                   and a merging of views.

We will not weaken
under discrimination
or be products of
your degradation.
                                        
         ­                               *We are the revolution
                                                      ­      and the sign,
                                          the liberation
                                                    to­ step out of line.

Gang ****. wars. famines.
iPad screen a shield between
news of death
and your life.

around, around, around we
go, tripping over molehills,
ignoring mountains where
diamonds and silver

lay as common as dirt
at the top.
this train is heading in painful
directions, but it would

tickle too much if we stop.
so we don't.
I won't give up my wi-fi
to save every child in a village

I've never even heard of.  
we all say it. inaudibly.
too many of us aboard,
but the water is lovely.

would someone -anyone- please,
please rock
this
boat.

i was told i could be anything,
so i chose to be a feminist
because
when i suggested my father help with the laundry,
my mother told me i was crazy.
because
meghan tranior's "all about that bass"
is telling bigger girls to be comfortable in their own skin
because skinny girls already do, right?
because
i'd like to make as much as my male coworkers.
because
i was laughed at for wanting to be a doctor instead of a housewife.
because
people look at me strange when i say i don't want kids.
because
when i gave a speech about feminism in my english class,
i was called a man-hater.
because
"my shoulders distract the boy's education".
because
my mom shouldn't have to worry
about what goes in my drink at concerts.

i will be a feminist until
i can tell my boyfriend
"no babe, i'd rather watch the movie"
and i am not told
"you're depriving him of his needs".
until
my body is my body.
until
i no longer have to carry pepper spray on a keychain.
until
women in foreign countries can vote and drive.
until
woman means human.
until
we understand **** culture
and feminism isn't just about women,
it's about humans.

However it begins, start off quiet
Then; it's gonna get louder
And louder.

This is how you write with power.

mix drinks, mix soul with attitude//
with empowerment
wrap it up in rhyme or rhyme it up
in rap
until it all becomes, sounds, and lives to be true.

Create persona's; flashy personalities
Political philosophies
like as if communism were the opposite of
democracy

Stop at some point in the poem-
Stop while they're jivin and movin to your words.
herd the unheard
jack lines. jack verbs.

This will give your poem
hesitation, a sense of urgency
and pause

Then of course a poem with power
contains anger

I have seen the disintegration
of dilapidated streets
gentrification

an educationally starved
third world nation

and make sure to speak with mastery of articulation
see, it's even spelt out in the constellations

making // placing sound waves upon deaf ears

Now, all you have to do
is lower your voice,
open your head
and say listen-

"This is the sound of the world changing,"

I said.

It's nature not a used ******
You can't just dispose of it once you're done using it
Like any of you really care
She is dying as we speak
And yet we just laugh as if everything is okay
As our air evaporates
HOW THE HECK DOES AIR EVAPORATE
But it's joke am I right
Yeah we find many uses for it,but look at her
And by her I mean nature
Her water is polluted
Her children die
Her mind has gone insane
But we don't care
We'll just watch her say bye
Then wonder why we have all died

Armpits hate aluminum

and vaginas loathe razors

body parts voice themselves

through physical sensations

lymph nodes form pea *****

crying to sweat

vaginas irritated screaming

ingrown hairs and sores

Why can’t we be accepted as we are?

Avoid deodorant

and guarantee that someone

will say,

YOU SMELL AWFUL

shave your ***** region

because every girl does it

without asking questions

groom for your man

do him a favor

wild and natural

under the assumption

that it must be tamed

so many women

never ******

but as long as the man

gets his fix

then the job is done

If a girl has ever stuffed her bra

with toilet paper

to make her chest fill out

some deep part of her

will understand what I’m writing about

Ladies... please as a collective,
wash your brain from brain wash

please stop romancing cutting,
depression, eating disorders,
anxiety and suicidal thoughts.
those things are not beautiful.

it is not beautiful waking up
every morning wishing you
weren't here.

it is not beautiful having to wear
long sleeves in the summer to
cover up the scars on your arms.

it is not beautiful throwing up
in the toilet just so you don't
gain another pound.

it is not beautiful missing school
for a month just because you
couldn't drag yourself out of bed
to see daylight.

but you can be beautiful with
cuts and scars all over your body.

and you can be beautiful even though
you aren't too happy about your weight.

oh, and you're still beautiful if you haven't
socialized with people for a couple weeks.

and you're still beautiful even though you
blew out your 16th birthday candles wishing
you were dead.

you're beautiful, but the things that you have done to
your body aren't.

Every day is the same thing, the same routine. Every morning I wake up earlier than I would like too, and waste my daylight inside a confined concrete building that feeds off of conformed thinking and dead end ideas. Seated at desks, row after row, are robots in training being programmed by words written on white walls with various colors, coded for correction.
          We walk the halls of so- called "social structure" like veins and arteries with no source of life. Sit. Stand. Strut. No strolling. We must coagulate with the clicks of the clock. Strive. They cut our wires and reroute them periodically. Don't soar. Stay. They have us tied down by the laces of our shoes to keep us here, to keep us from wandering, because wandering leads to wondering. We are each a 12 point letter, of the same font, standing, double spaced, staring at the same blank paper in front of us.
          Except every now and then, there's someone that gives off a little more reception than is acceptable. Between the cords connecting our control panels is cartilage, flowing through our system software is life and thoughts and memory. When our thumb drive is hooked up to our monitor, our eyes open bigger, with three cones, we see a spectrum that was once incapable. When we leave our daily life with a wrong, or right, turn we feel the drops of water falling from the sky on our hands and we don't immediately go up in flames, instead we let out a sigh of relief.
          The next day I try to install this into others, but only to be told I am simply short circuited. But I know better now, I am not malfunctioning. I was struck by lightning and now my brain is storming.

And sometimes I just want to cry. Not because I'm sad.
But because the universe is so big and there isn't a big enough word to describe it.
And I'm so small and there isn't a small enough word to describe that.
I want to cry but not because I'm lost. I want to cry because there are so many people who are.
I want to shake them and tell them
"we're only here for a second".
You only need one thing, anyway.
One thing to remind you how small you are.
But that one thing has to be what lifts you up, makes you stands taller...reminds you that no matter how small you are in the universe, you are big to someone.  
I want to cry because I've been lost but it's happening. Here. Now.
And there's nothing I can do or say to stop it.
I want to cry for the time I lost when I was lost and there isn't enough time for that.
We're here for a second and I don't want to cry about that.
I want to cry about how many beautifully exquisite things there are to see and I want to shake the hands of the men and women who made it that way.
I know there isn't enough time for that either.
So maybe instead I'll cry tears of joy that the people I see in photographs and on television are part of my team.
That they are small, just like me and they got to see something I may never see.
And that's okay with me.
Because I'll feel things like they don't feel and see things they don't see, too. Because that's the way it works.
We cry and we laugh. We scream and we whisper. We run and then we crawl.  
All because we want to do it all.
I don't want to do it all.

I just want to keep being a part of the team.

She isn't my sister,
the girl from Ohio.
Biologically we are no kin.
But her blood smeared against asphalt
has shimmering dots
revealing that
We are family.

This is to her and others like her.
The ones from before
and the ones after.

My sister will never hear these words
But as long as its known

I love her.
Even if the world wasn't ready for her.

I am tired of **** shaming
Of renaming pleasure as evil
And violence as noble

dear media;
my body is art.
**** your opinion and your ideals on what I should be
because I am living, breathing art.

my face shows young beauty,
inspiration and awe found in my eyes
and just beneath the pupil, a shimmer of excitement.

my lips have said so much, they seem to be so ripe with the words they speak,
they send daggers
yet stay plump and baby pink.

and what about my arms? they have endured so much,
every cut, bruise, and punch for a lonely night or the feeling of not being good enough.
they allow me to write my words;
hold those up plagued with the feeling of being alone
my arms, they are strong.

my stomach is like a mountain and
next time I'm in bed the man I'm with will understand as he
runs his fingers between every space of each rib and kisses my stomach,
down to my inner thighs and back up again.

and my thighs, still fresh and wild
dangle and jump at the mere sight of adventure
wrap around a mans waist to make him feel better and
kiss him on the cheek with the lips I spoke of before.

my brain will hold and absorb galaxies,
an endless universe unfolding before me and
i will take in each bit and dream of it at night because;

i am ambitious, diligent, strong and talented,
and yet I can still be
soft and caressed and fragile but,
media, society, never mistake my kindness for weakness because
i will take the food you feed me and spit it right out because
my body and mind is worth much more.

dear media;
my body is art,
and you will not be the artist.

conceptcollection