The first man
Is the worst man...

The poetry of women
contain much more than just words.
The poems are about their hearts:
what's right, what's wrong,
what's inside, and what they're missing.

The poetry of women
is not merely love stories.
It's independence, it's liberty, and it's their freedom to tell us what they're feeling, whether we want to hear it or not.

The poetry of women
can be everything they wanted to tell you and more,
that she always wanted you, but never had you,
or how badly you ****** up when you lost her.

The poetry of women
is strong and does not require you to approve of it.
She's writing you off while she's writing it.

.   .   .

The poetry of women
is much different from the poetry of men.
'Tis no mere poem, but a tiny piece of her soul.

Skin like chocolate
Beautiful dark knight
Trying and trying as he might
To save little ole me
And I'm wondering why, oh why, of all people is he looking

Dear boy
Didn't anyone teach you any manners?
If I wanted to be found
I'd find you.

How many hearts are we born with?
Two? Twelve?
And when we die, are there any left over?
Because when we get our hearts broken,
somehow we find it in ourselves to love again.
From the wee age of "puppy love"
all the way to "always and forever", we get back up.
No matter the hurt we endure, we can find a way to revive ourselves.

Or at least most of us, I see,
because while everyone is defrosting their backup hearts,
I lie here dying.

Being born so long ago I must not have been lucky enough.

I want you to love me so hard,
So painful,
So intense,
That it hurts
Me.

Wiped out and broken inside,
I've been defiled.
'Tis there nothing that can remove this violation from my stained corpse?
It's doomed to be my own little secret forever,
And even if I never tell, it shall never be undone.
She took me.
She stole my innocence and I'm supposed to be ok with it.
But when I finally worked up the courage to reach out to someone,
They blamed me.
How dare I ever do something like that,
E v e r .
As if it were my fault, I began to spiral.
Socially I was never the same,
She ripped my body and soul in half.
My brain in pieces,
And my heart in shambles, I thought she was my friend.
From then and on I trusted no man,
God forbid another woman.
It was supposed to feel good is what she kept telling me,
That it wouldn't hurt,
That it'd be alright.
But she lied.
It was everything but alright, because we didn't have ***,
She ***** me.
She lied to me about everything.
She promised me she wouldn't put me in danger
That she wouldn't turn her back on me,
That we were like family.
I cried a little that night in the shower, scrubbing off the horror.

It's been almost a year and I can still feel the betrayal underneath my skin.
I still feel the lies and the soul-shattering sensation of her riding.
Every time she rode me,
I died inside more and more by the minute,
And now she's had her baby and thinks I should meet him and be his godfather.
She wants M E to be the godfather.
Why? I'm already his father.
And besides, I don't want anything to do with that monstrosity.

But I'll do it,
I'll be what she wants me to be,
because I can't stand the thought of that kid growing up to be anything like her.