A rap song playing in this coffee shop
tells me women are only good for ***.
I wipe off my makeup
and pull down the dress
draped around me like the softest chains.
I am not like the women in these songs.
Once – though – I tried to be.
(Because we who were not free
all believed in the promise
and false security of
striving and beauty.)
I want to shake the younger me
and scream at the men around her:
She is not your American dream.
She is a thinker. She is worth protecting.
She is not this icon.
I want to scream at the men who compliment my body
and those who ignore me because of it
at the boy from my freshmen year in high school
(“You like her? But she’s so tall…”)
I am not just a girl,
even though I’ve been told,
“Beautiful girls earn more money.”
I’ve learned that I hold a different kind of beauty.
Not the 5’8” skater-girl
Nor the 6’2” glamour queen
But someone between –
– between languages and instruments
and classes and battles –
I put on my armor.
And I will emerge,
no longer screaming in anger,
but quietly certain in my own worth.
Not all victories are followed by blaring trumpets.
Mine will be a silent one –
but no less violent a struggle.
My beauty does not define me.
It will fade, but not my victory.

With my friends, I goose-stepped down a dingy street, us all chomping down on pigs’ feet meat

My wet ears, inexperience glistening, opened up to the city eagerly listening

Heard orders for ****** and boy toys which, essentially, created walls of white noise

Found my way onto a queen-sized lump of trash and determined it a quality place to crash

Woke up suddenly to find the third eye of my mind permanently blind

Watched my body plunge into the absolute abysmal solely due to a habit of feeling terribly dismal

Started painting an accurate portrait of daily life using the ornate hues of continuous strife

Made a recipe for misery with some sassafras and a dab of the other side’s greener grass

It wasn’t until I chomped down on a half-finished Baby Ruth that my noggin’ tuned into the truth

Turns out, birds of a feather are held together by the absolute weakest of tethers

The light fall attracts me and like a moth I'm distracted, burn and I go back again.
I spin and return to
feel the burn and contracting, but it's just me that's playing a part in a play, acting a role as directed.

Catherine wheel round to revolve, hit the ground and I smoulder, the smoke turns me blue, the flame sneaks itself out and the World gets a bit colder, but it's just acting, scene one, the World hasn't gone it's just hidden in her Ladyship's handbag.

Using a pin code to get over the main road I dodge all the traffic at nine,
the machines let me slow into the way, but I know which way they'd like me to go so I stay.

It's a misdirect and it's done to confuse me when the light finally fails me and the smoke tails off from me like rain from the gutter,
I splutter until I can utter no more cries,
dry my tears on a handkerchief
and go.

At this deep pool
Where no light is reflected,
Where small birds come
Clinging to the vine
Amongst fallen logs and silences,
The crush of leaves and the rot of years.

At this dark edge
Where now unassailable trees tower
In a brief clearing,
At this still centre where the wreckage lies
Of river's breach and storm's rage.

Here at the heart.

Where once the workings of long-ago men,
The wild, roaring, toothless ones,
Desperate and dislocated,
Their fierce eyes blazing through dark,
And bodies by day burning through timber,
Cut sunlight in shadow
And nation in nature.

He has his demons from his past
And quite frankly, so do I
I'm once again the lonelyest person
When he came into my life
Do I take in his flaws and accept the gamble,
That would give away my heart?
Why do I feel like he holds the only light,
When the world is dimming dark?
Show me the world through your eyes
And in this life, how you've made it by
your voice and accent hypnotized me
Into an easier state of mind
Behind the glass, I can see your soul
Comical, light, and warm
Make the chaos run away
Like rays of gold outshine a dark and rainy storm