Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
for the first time, I have my hands on your hips,
and if I were a betting man I'd say the third shot of gin
is who put them there.
I am staring at your lower lip,
and you're staring at my eyes, or something.
the part of my brain that hasn't been inundated by alcohol is begging me to stop,
but the rest of me is begging you to never let go once your cold hands find my burning neck.
this i know.
without a skerrick of doubt.

if not for your hands,
holding gently, my fragile heart.

and our son's, trust and need,
giving roots,
to my runaway feet.

my vagabond soul,
                              would be, but dust,
                                   scattered, to the winds..

your heart... and his...are my anchors ....sturdy.
agin,
the present, malestorm.
that is my iconoclastic mind.
I am seen more frequently as an object than a human being
People act as if there is no soul inside the mannequin they're seeing

I am referred to by things like "****, beautiful, and Honey"
When I answer with offence they say they're only being funny

I walk away feeling degraded with an overwhelming sense of shame
Strangers make me hate myself and never learn my name

To hear a ****** cat call sends a shiver down my spine
to be objectified is understated, and society says it's fine

It makes me sick when I am treated like a piece of meat
My one solution is to cut two eye holes in an old bed sheet

When strangers say I'm pretty I no longer feel an ere of confidence and pride
I feel a need to run away, be alone, and hide
I've been facing a lot of discrimination, and ****** harassment lately. When you are in a position like this often times people are too afraid to speak up. I know I've been, so I guess I'll let it out here.
Lets travel to a land
where nobody knows which creed
I belong to
And which sect I possess
Where nobody knows my name
And people are less bias
Have one colour,
One faith which they cling to
Where to judge is to sin
And where nobody asks
who am I
But
what am I doing..
Do what you feel you should do, have pride, have confidence despite whatever this world says. If you think you can make a difference, I believe you can!
Does the migrating duck truly know
what it is that he wants;
or is he caught up in peer pressure
when he conquers indecision,
and spreads his wings to fly
south?

Is it possible that as he soars,
like Icarus,
that he is accosted by doubt
while the late autumn sun
baptizes him?

And when he finally crashes down,
in some forgotten pond,
warmed by a tropical clime;
that he wonders what might have been,
and is overcome by regret?
Next page