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He wanted a woman with curves
She was too self-centred
He chose one with pure skin
She was too sensitive
He got one with flawless hair
She was too cocky
He opted for one with a beautiful face
She was too rude
He went for a fair skinned one
She was too lazy
He switched to a chocolate skinned one
She had terrible cooking
He looked for a tall one
She was disrespectful
He went for a short one
Her temper was even shorter
In all this he learned tolerance
Now he accepts the perfect imperfections in people

Miss Fit ⚓
rory Apr 20
i must proclaim
acceptance of myself
that the people who leave me
have their own lives to oversee and ponder

they wouldn't be with me
at all times
in sadness and in blissfulness,
in my comedies and tragedies,
and in the spasms of my heart
that have experienced melancholy
and disguise with just a smile.
I see so many ads now
they feed into my insecurities
and help me to notice everything that is wrong with me.

"Got stretch marks?"
they ask, and my eyes shamefully
trace down my chest to my inner thighs and I learn to hate what I see.

So I read on, hoping to learn
how to get rid of the natural signs of an ageing vessel
"Neosporin, coconut oil, and olive, and they'll be gone in a week."

The ads proclaim, and so I do as they say
because how can I be pretty
if no one else thinks me so?

"10 Tips on How to Get the Relationship of Your Dreams"
"5 Signs that You're Not as Pretty as You Think You Are"
"4 Things to Try to Spice Up Your *** Life"

"1 Way to Tell Whether the Creepy Old Man on the Corner Thinks You're Worthy of Being Catcalled by Him"

I read on, trying to understand what it is to be pretty
but the more I see,
the more hopeless I become

Men will only ever see me as a piece of meat,
just a pair of **** and an ***,
only there for their enjoyment or pleasure.

but I am not here to make things easy,
I am more than the sum of my parts,
more than my cellulite and hip dips

I revel in my stretch marks
I have grown into the woman I am today,
and I refuse to erase the proof of that.
I am not here to be a ******* incubator. I am not here for man's pleasure.
C E Ford Mar 28
Somewhere out in another universe,
I'm 12 years old
and I'm sitting on my bed listening to something through
a hopelessly tangled white headphone string,
flipping through the dog-eared pages
of my favorite book while everyone is sleeping.

The sticky, syrupy air of summer floats through an open window
and nothing bad has happened to me,
no scalding words or hot fingers
etching their prints into my skin.

I haven't menstruated or fallen in love or  yet shrunk myself down
or any of the things that made me a woman.

I am warm in my white tank top
and the blue satin shorts with the printed clouds
wondering about trips to the beach
and sticker placements on my new notebook from Borders.

And I hope she's always able to stay like this,
that she never knows of the kinds of stains
that won't wash out of her white tank top.

And that every once in a while,
I might just catch a second of her laughing
from the room next door.
Grief is never linear. Sometimes you find yourself in the middle of your workday thinking of how another you in another universe is doing.

And I really hope that she's doing okay.
uv Mar 25
I am not social
I am scarse
I dont need to show up
If my heart does not ask

I am not available
I am not a farce
I dont need attention
Atleast not by the vast

I say i dont care
I say it, again.
Again and again
Till it feels like a mask

No need to follow
No need to like
I can grow, i can flow
I can be a social dislike

My talent is mine
It's whispers are mine
For me, for me
For me is the rhym.

You can leave me
You can, you can
Leave me you can
But i still love the best i can

I love the best i can.
Just pause, pause this race, you are more important than what others might think.
You were constantly telling me I was sunshine and roses when I am obviously orchids and moonlight.
The way you held me, caressed my body, said my name…
They were pleasant enough but never filled the void in my soul.
You spoon fed me lies and wrapped me in a warm blanket enveloped with deception.
You cared for me up to your standards but never asked me mine.
Your words enraptured my thoughts and buried doubt into my brain.
You said you couldn’t live without me .
You told me you loved me.
That I was perfect for you.
We moved boxes and made a home.
Our possessions and limbs intertwined like lovers in the night.
We were blended.
But like water and oil we drifted, we separated.
You wanted me to change…
Not something as simple as to stop smacking my lips as I ate or to watch my intake of wine.
You wanted me to change core beliefs.
Wanted me to believe in a man in the sky who lets children starve, women get abused, and men to die.
Meanwhile my taro cards and crystals are charging in the moonlight as star dust dances upon my skin.
You were constantly telling me I was sunshine and roses when I am orchids and moonlight.
I am the universe wrapped into a humans body.
I am love.
I am acceptance.
I am all encompassing kindness.
You took it for granted and want it back.
I know who I am while you are searching for yourself.
You are wanting others to change to better your life.
When you should be accepting people you turn them away.
You took a piece of my heart… for it was yours.
But you just took a portion. Not the whole.
Haley Protega Feb 23
You can hear the alarm bells,
See the red flags.
You know this will ruin you,
And you walk in with eyes wide open

You try to justify it to the world,
To yourself.
It's the end of the road;
a sense of belonging, finally,
of having a purpose,
and you're tired.
So tired of wandering, searching,
Choking on the salt in the air, the sea an endless barren desert with no land in sight.
So when you hear the siren's call,
And you know it spells doom,
You answer it anyway.
At least it will be over.

Except it's not death you're heading towards, but not a life either,
You'd be called crazy
If there were anyone around.

You're tired, and this feels safe,
To fall sleep in a dungeon,
To drop your heavy defenses.
It's hard work keeping them up,
And you're tired.

There's no room for mistakes in chains.
Your hands can't move to sin.
You're clean, and good;
Your mind is light, free from worry
And planning.

Your eyes fall shut.
You don't dream.
23. 02. 2023.
This poem can be interpreted in a few different ways, and I wrote it with more than one meaning in mind. Choose whichever you like best, the significance is always in the mind of the reader.
Larry dillon Oct 2022
Darkness made clearer
By the accretion disk of a collapsed star
Gravity is a force that binds us now:
Defining how strong we are

In our weakness we could not resist
Compelled towards a rift in the sky
distorting reality
A monstrosity not even light can escape
The irony being that we can assuredly
See our fate

Time slowed down as we neared it
soon it simply froze
We sailed past the event horizon
-onward toward a secret that through fear:
not even time is willing to expose

The nose of our vessel ripped apart
Ejecting us from the safety of our ship,
"The Noah's ark"
Unable to atone for the embryos aboard
we had lost
we drifted alone,
in the dark

rushing head first
towards the heart of oblivion
The mission escaped from our mind
as tidal forces began spaghettifying our skin

This wasn't the first time
A few seconds felt like
They would never end
Our destiny swallowed
by a black hole in outer space
Consuming our only hope
to restart the human race

Yet in this place I feel peace
we are shown a secret
that no man should ever see
Right before I desist
Collapsing Into that eternal nascent sleep

Something from beyond the singularity,


I close my eyes.

                   "Such sweet release."
A story of two astronauts tasked with restarting humanity and coming face to face with the unimaginable.
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