Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
L A Lamb Oct 2014
You *****—I bet you know this—
All along you knew it was wrong
You were too insecure
You wanted what wasn’t yours
You corrupt ******* *****

I swore to be nice
But it was really hard, twice
When you brought it up
Shoved it in my face—
I wanted to put you in your place
But I knew, too true, it was all you could do
To regain a feeling,
Feel like you had meaning,
And were worth something to him

But your summer skin was not enough
To make him stay, you were a piece to play,
A piece to hold and let go of right away
An action he made
To throw my world in disarray

You stupid *****
He never gave a ****
That’s why it was a hit and quit
—was it worth it?
To be a *** and make me feel bad?
We both know
He never loved you,
And that’s pretty ******* sad
I bet you were ******* mad
When he used your ***,
then tossed you aside like trash—
for a drunken smash, trying to hurt me--

you were nothing more than
a slick slit to stick his ****
and I bet you feel like ****
you were a shard to break my heart
and you did—you betrayed a sister
for a mister who only used you as a quickfix
—that manipulative ***** had you tricked!

But you know what?
You deserved it—you heard it
In my fake voice—the restrain
Not to tackle you and beat your face
But I refrained, still the pain:
For you and me both,
But it sure ***** to see how
You could never be
The girl he loved the most.
L A Lamb Sep 2014
Self-fulfilling Prophecy

When I walked to Jerusalem
And I saw people following
I thought to myself
What the ****.
All day, all night
No sleep, alright

Because I’m carried by my dreams-- so it seems
I hit cloud nine; because I crashed
Against a glass—ceiling
When I hit my head
Too high

Coming down, aye, down and out
Looking for a substance to drown in
But not go out in, ****
I’ll spray some **** like graffiti on these walls
I’ll color skin blue and purple
When I get into brawls
Because I fall hard. I mean I ball hard.
But I get right back up and play
If you too wrecked—to-confront-these-lyrics
You should stay the **** away.
I hear it? Do you hear?
I can hear my wedding bells
And when I hear people laugh
I hear the sound of inner hell.
Hellion!! Devil--seductress,
baybe maybe I please
get in some of that sugary sin
Maybe consult Confucius door-hinge
--Ask if the juice is worth the squeeze.

When I walked to Jerusalem
And I saw people following
I thought to myself
What the ****.
All day, all night
No sleep, alright

My suffering was a blessing
Say if the Israeli’s got me
Journalist, Arabic on my wrist
Words of wisdom in my lisp
Those Zionists would have shot me
Thank Lord.
L A Lamb Sep 2014
The inverse of error
A metaphorical math
Because I rhyme so sick in season
You can call men Sylvia Plath
You can call me Sylvia Plath
Spilling verses accidental
Spilling blood like pen and paper
Give me rock paper, scissors—construction
Philosophy of metaphors—the reciprocal of destruction
Creation in deviation
Multiplication in meditation and mesmerizing memorization
Mad in the head, but I’m a mat-hatter for love
'A zombie by neuroses
A zombie by drugs
But on those pharmaceutical
Cause cut **** is for thugs
(3% probability
Is in the margin of error
How many times have we ******
And would you even care?
Oh, despair. The plague of a woman-
Slick wit like slick ****
And you can call these rhymes grimy
Because I’m cleaning your eyes with it.)
L A Lamb Sep 2014
It’s an Epic Poem.
A Litany, so to speak
a long list of malapropisms and algorithms.
The decade started in 1991.
It was the revolutionary, the lucky twentieth century.
Decade strikes two.
To who? To whom?
The last seven years were the Silence of the Lambs.
It was a little shop of horrors,
Little girls as little ******,
Dolls to be bought and played with.
I am
Ach duh
Je suis
The genie trapped inside,
Bound to be freed through suicide
And I did so
So many times.44544rtftfrfrtg]
L A Lamb Sep 2014
Six oh six a.m.
Saturday the thirteenth.
Today came in through twilight
When last year it came through dusk
Through a different man’s musk

A different moon’s scent
And I prevent myself in wavering for favoring others
Because how can you decide
if you can’t compare another brother?

Don’t call me Jezebel, *******
I’m Scheherazade on these snitches
Hippolyta—A lover and a fighter
Ariel--a  forest nymph, bound
Sappho and Joan of Arc—United
Call me the Queen on the ******
But I own that ****
As I am.
L A Lamb Sep 2014
Friday, August 01, 2014, Buttes-Chaumont Parc, Paris, France.

Why do I need feminism? We all have our reasons. We all have our stories. Let me tell you about my day:

I was sitting on a hill in the grass at Buttes-Chaumont park, a lovely historical area in Paris. I wanted to be relatively by myself so I could write in peace and smoke without drawing attention to myself. I’m sitting, book in my lap, a pen and cig between my fingers, when I am approached by a man. My main concern was determining whether or not he was the po-lice, but he had no characteristics of cops. He appeared emotionally stable and had good hygiene so I wasn’t too uncertain, (isn’t it kind of bad how we judge people on that stuff?), still, I wondered what he wanted, dreading having to talk to someone when I was merely trying to write in peace. I figured he was going to ask me for something to smoke.

He didn’t. Instead, he asked if he could sit by me. I look around and scan all the other vacant spaces he could sit instead, making it obvious that there was plenty of room to sit instead of right the **** next to me. It’s a pretty big park. “Si ca ta derange pas?” I wasn’t planning on staying long anyway, but I knew he wouldn’t be dangerous as there were many families and couples and runners and walkers, old friends and young kids playing. I felt safe enough, and he seemed harmless. I figured if anything, I could practice my French, which was always nice.

I said okay. He sat, and for a moment we sat in silence. I made myself a sandwich with baguette and cheese and offered him some. He politely declined. We started talking.

I asked if he was Parisian, and he told me he lived there for a while but was from Afrique. I didn’t catch which country, but I don’t think he specified which region. He asked about me, and I told him I was American, born in DC, but I came to France every so often and it was my first language. We talked about travel. We talked about the chaos in the Middle East, and how it was prophesized in scripture. He told me he was Muslim. I told him I wasn’t religious.

I told him I acknowledged the importance of texts, but I believe our ability to think has evolved in 2000 years and we have more information now than we did then. I told him there was too much life and I could not fit it all into one magic being which sprinkled glitter and said “Let there be” and we were created. I told him I really liked the Asian philosophies of Buddhism and Daoism. We talked about peace. We talked about Human Rights and the beauty of diversity, and how marvelous it was people could live among another in peace.

I said it was cool, and I even said it was cool that even as a black man in Europe and an Arab-American woman, we could talk freely without hostility and social division. We talked about closed-mindedness and Conservativism. I explained cognitive dissonance contributing to conflict, generated by opposing views and resistance/reluctance to consider new ideas. We talked about Psychology. I told him I was a writer and I told him about Cabaret Populaire in Belleville and the poetry community in Paris. I told him I love Paris. We talked again about travel.

He told me he was in Germany last weekend, and I told him I was in Langen Tuesday night. He told me he always wanted to go to the U.S.A. We talked about immigration. We talked about the American Dream. We talked about money. I told him I was proposed to the last time I was in Lebanon. We talked about reasons people marry. I reminded him today was the first of August, which meant I’d been with my boyfriend for two months. We talked about love. We talked about monogamy, polyamory and infidelity. We talked about Islam. We talked about racism.

We were sitting there talking for an hour or so, which I was especially grateful for, because besides having an interesting conversation I was able to speak in French for all of it, as he did not speak English (apparently he spoke German, though). I stood up to leave and told him “Enchanté,” but before I started walking off he motioned for me to look at his phone. I was wondering if he was trying to add me on Facebook or follow me on Instagram or something, but I am instead confronted by a picture on his screen of him laying on his back on a bed, with an ***** ***** as the focal point.

Furious, I asked him “Pourquoi tu ma montre ca?! J’ai pas demande a voir ca!”

The stupid smile on his face disappeared and was replaced by a look of slight hurt, confusion, and surprise.

“Bordelle! C’est dommage—mais c’est ca—des hommes et femmes ne peuvent pas parler normalment, vraiment!”

And for the vile words I wanted to spout, I scoffed instead, too much of a lady to shout or get emotional, but I made sure to call him out and stand my ground, exuding negative energy and making it clear with my few words that that was not okay.

I gave no impression of interest in seeing his ****, so why did he do that? Even if he thought I might want to (hell never) he should have heard me ask or vocally say “yes, you can do that.” However, I did not ask; there were no prompts, hints, innuendos or even suggestive, flirty phrasing that would serve as an indication of ****** interest on my behalf.

I don’t want to be cynical and assume all guys are perverts and avoid any conversation because I’m not a rude person (generally). I’m not sexist. I value conversations and friendships with people without emphasis of gender importance. I try not to assume that everyone is sketchy or has ****** up motives. Some people just want to talk.

I wasn’t going to blatantly ignore or dismiss him because he was a man, nor because he was black, foreign, or Muslim. But where the hell is he from that he was socialized and thought that was appropriate or wanted?

I did not ask. The worst part is that he seemed like a genuinely alright person, but then he had to ruin it by whipping out a **** pic. Gross. What’s even more gross is the sense of entitlement he had, thinking it was acceptable to do that. You are a stranger. And I don’t want to see your ******, you disgusting *******.

I really don’t like assuming **** about people or making generalizations. I’m not going to assimilate one ****** with every group they are assigned to and stereotype against every person of that respective group. But fuckkkk. It’s annoying and disappointing that what I thought was a pleasant talk and exchange of ideas with a friendly stranger was actually a plot to show me his ****. ****.

The moral of this story is to say why feminism is needed, because this happens to people every day. If you still need further assistance understanding, please allow me to elaborate:

1)      I need feminism because it allows me to stand up for myself and feel confident about stating that I’m uncomfortable with unwanted behaviors and I’m not going to tolerate them.

These behaviors include, but are not limited to:

1)      Showing me **** pics

2)      Assuming it’s okay to show a girl you met not even an hour ago a **** pic (Do not even say it’s because of a culture difference, because I know of Frenchies who don’t do that)

3)      Approaching me because I’m sitting alone (I accepted that because I assumed he wasn’t going to violate my mind like that (good thing I don’t have photographic memory) but I didn’t wave over and say “Hey, you look friendly! Come over and talk to me!”)

4)      Asking me how serious things are with my boyfriend

5)      Asking me about my bisexuality—only to invalidate it

6)      Assigning me behavior expectations because of my gender

7)      Trying to control the way I do or do not reproduce

8)      Expecting me to behave a certain way because of my sexuality

9)      Judging me based on my sexuality

10)  Openly discriminating against people and expecting me to be okay with prejudice

11)  Using racist terms… because you’re a racist

12)  Dehumanizing the oppressed

Because I don’t know what you studied about it (wait—most people who disagree with feminism haven’t and are completely misinformed) but:

Feminism is about equality, and it doesn’t feel very equal when I show someone respect but I get no respect in return. And if you associate feminism with fauxminism and misandry, please educate yourself. (If I had Tumblr still, you better believe I would’ve already posted this). To quote the great words of Jay in Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back: "Remember, don’t whip your **** out unless she asks."
L A Lamb Sep 2014
I don’t want to be like Plath, Woolfe, or any other female writer who is categorized by confessing depression on paper. I want to describe my subjectivity and contrast it with objectivity, record reality as I perceive it, and analyze my most relevant moments; I want to collect soothing ones, painful ones, and all outside and in between, arranging my observations and most prominent memories into a work of art. I want to create something heinous and beautiful, an interpretation of a specific type of life where I am riddled through the spaces, cracks, unfinished bits, rushed strokes and flaws, filling what’s unsaid with myself, where I am what’s reflected. My life is a mosaic where everything is broken and together, beautiful, but nowhere near perfect, and I cannot stop staring at what I’ve created from what has been provided. The pieces I arranged I did so with variety; some were carefully placed, some impulsively stuck, and some I smashed myself, to be destructive and see what it would look like after. Moments, like assorted glass, are sometimes broken, smooth, colorful, jagged, curved, sharp and dull, but when they are placed together, their individual qualities are no longer emphasized, and the importance lies in the whole piece of what is created. A mosaic is the essence of the artist with the ability to reflect the artist’s design, like a mirror.
Next page