A woman's life is full of men.
They each see her as a prize.

A thing to touch and maybe hold.
Not intelligent. Not wise.

I am an object to you.
Walking ******* and skin.

You only think of what to say.
In the chance I might let you in.

My thoughts are deep
and my emotions pure
I have no time for boy games anymore.

My heart is full of pent up rage
Because I am an object to you.
Can't you see that the truth is...

You are an object to me too.

Dandelion wine        
                      

When you are dead and buried
Do your thoughts and memories bubble to the surface?
                        Feed the grass?
Do dandelions fluff and carry your ideas with the wind
Mental pollen irritating and pollinating the world
Impregnating others with your mental seeds
                 Both weeds and flowers
Do your thoughts continue and repeat a cycle
            Seed, growth, bloom, and seed again

Copyright 2017
Richard L Ratliff

I might have been twenty
when I had this thought.
Good family, material ease -
she really should
snap out of it.

This was before
I'd ever stumbled
into fruitless darkness,
when mood and circumstance
seemed one and the same.

I thought myself magnanimous
when rather than judging
I rationalised.
"Perhaps we're hard wired
to seek problems to solve,"
I pondered,
"so where there are none,
we create them."

But now
instead of second-hand accounts
of days in bed,
ill-fated relationships
and unaccountable weeping,
I read her own words.

And I am staggered,
inspired,
by her strength
and her insight,

and by how little
we can know of each other
until we are ready
to learn.

Men who ruin my night:

All I want is to be free
without having to coordinate
an army of women as posse.

But invitably, you will approach
and interrupt any attempt
at a private one woman show.
I will play nice,
an actress to backhand
compliments about her casual appearance
or whatever the ****
you strike up and serve my way.

I will anxiously look
for strangers to talk loudly with,
avoid your gaze, your funnel,
your "friendly" back pats.
Just because we have a mutual friend
doesn't mean your relevant.
But you don't know that.
You don't know me.
The girl inside, just a social
butterfly flying away from
your outstretched hands
into the night, into her lonely bed,
no dreams of hopeless men.
Excusing herself with period cramps.
No one can fault a girl for hiding
with such pain. It's the ultimate way
to get stupid to turn away.
And nature's way of telling her,
let's not fight those men tryna
cramp your style.
Just stay inside.
Sorry girl, another time.