You think that perhaps, a word or stare,
or a ***** phrase hurled down the hem of a skirt,
can keep a woman caged and scared.

Perhaps you think too, that the only place
which suits a woman is near a musty stove,
that she should walk just along your pace.

I woe such men on their high horse,
galloping around with no remorse ...

How terrible it must be,
to hold a pen which forgets to bleed,
where inks turn transparent,
like water running down streams,
where tears form beads of sorrow,
glistening in every wake,
while the muse slumbers on,
peacefully ignorant, of the whirlwind
its absence creates...

It's funny,
this thing called love.

Yet,
it rarely makes
anyone laugh.

I was made
to serve, quiet and silent,
a living body ripped
of its tongue

where certain hellhounds
breathe down the necks
of suppressed females,
petrified, but still

unwillingly willing to please
the so-called men-gods.

I was born
in a world where opinions
and thoughts are stacked
pile upon pile, and while

my inner voices tries to
stretch itself awake sometimes,
only to be dragged back
into a drunken stupor,

but not before I see
salivating mouths, leering
...closing in upon me...

I was made human,
perhaps...

You are
the silent prayer
my subconscious heart
whispers ...in twilit hours.

I slept
listening to the sound
of your rhythmic breaths,

and your snores,
my customized lullaby.