Hello Poetry is a poetry community that raises money by advertising to passing readers like yourself.

If you're into poetry and meeting other poets, join us to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
And in this world full of
I am a Wonder Woman.
Disclaimer: I did this as a creative rewrite for one of my university lit courses, and all the inspiration and quotes belong to Robert Browning the original writer of "My Last Duchess"

“That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive.”
(I’m not)
Alas! Me, “a wonder.” He calls.
Now wretchedly refined and pasteurized.
To be consumed, now, for genteel eyes.
Pity! Should you ever see me roll mine.
Behind those curtains, you might have been surprised
To see my countenance whimpering
At you Sir; and seething, at Him.
Must you not be fooled by that sickly decorum
Upon which his manly pride resides.
The Duke—what rich talent in envy he has,
And of pithy idiosyncrasies! Pardon me now
As I speak of his infamies: Is it not,
Too preposterous of a Duke, to sulk
And take offense, over a blush?
(As if the blush was his to wield and shun.)
Am I not allowed to flush at all?
And must I be ashamed of being swooned
By the casual offers of life’s grandiosities?
Each and every, dropping of the daylight,
Ripen cherries in May and chivalrous gentlemen,
my dear white mule; must I then weep
at them all, only to prove my fancy for him.
And when does gracious gratitude itself
become in vain: a finite honour—
deemed excessive elsewhere?
Never had he plucked me out, for censure,
Before he gave commands, I knew he did
To pluck the smile out of my face.
Utterly clueless—he thought I was
To find myself throttled, for immodesty.
A wife, an appendage to a Duke,
Loosely felled, to ****** a green-eyed ego.
My fault it seems, is a mere generosity
Of affection: falsely opined, if not
Misread, to fare a defect of temperament,
A chronic malady, doth be cured by death.
To cement the farce he will, soon, bring you
Downstairs to meet a friend. (a fiend)
A prized possession: Neptune, taming a sea-horse.
His hubris incarnate, cast in bronze.
But you must know the truth, for the sea-horse
Did not perish for naught, she is freed from him
At last.
Oct, 2018
Emily 7d
Bubble gum and vanilla perfume is what I thought of when I dreamed about girls.
When I imagined myself with my own girl gang. Like in the movies.
Heart shaped sunglasses and matching bikinis.

It is so much better than that.

It is spilled wine and ripped jeans.
Laughter that makes your ears ring and smiles that ache by the end of the night.
She’s rubbing the ashes she spilled into my comforter, and I don’t even care.
She’s drinking a ***** soda out of a mug and stealing a pair of my sweatpants.
She’s teaching me how to properly curl my hair.

Every boy is unworthy.
She gets more beautiful with each passing day.
Intricacies buried deep inside her.
Little pieces of her uncovered bit by bit.

She paints.
She writes poetry.
She has a green thumb.
She likes her coffee black with a pinch of cinnamon.
She prefers foggy weather to sunny.
She loves foreign films.

Only friends who love deeply can fight so harshly.
Only girls who know each other inside and out can wreak such havoc with their words.
Roots tangled together beneath the ground.
Howls that harmonize under the light of the moon.

When I imagined myself with my own girl gang I didn’t realize it’d be a pack of wolves, starving for life and love.
Sienna Dec 2
There’s a woman in the streetlight surrounded by reddish dark
Her body feeling numb, her body feeling stark
As she waits for a man to come and leave his mark
No father or dreams nothing to believe
Sold into this life, her mom is the enemy
And her tears and body are its currency
No point to beg or plead
The lonely men are satisfied when she bleeds
She gives them all and everything
But they continue to feed
Some get careless and leave her to breed
A baby on the way but the world it’ll never see
As the red on her legs triggers tears to the sink
Again she starts the cycle
Smoking a cigarette, sitting under the light pole
Dreading the next man to take her to bed
Knowing sooner or later she’d be left for dead
But the feeling won’t register anymore
As mommy had done this to her
Mommy had made her a *****
And now she’s only wanted nothing more
Then to go to a home and open a door
Without fear of being pushed to the floor
While her body is seen as just another lure
She never asked for this or the ***** kiss
Never wanted to feel it forced in
As her body grows tired and gets fragile and thin
Wishing again and again for a better life as another tear rolls off her chin
And joins the others in the puddle of unwanted sin.
Sometimes I think about how the world would taste
Should I see everything in Pink?
I wonder whether each morning
My coffee would be sweeter
And my mug less boring
Would I wake up earlier than the sun
And in doing housework
Have more fun?
Would skirts feel less out of place
If they matched the blush
I’d put upon my face?
Would I bruise more easily
As rough hands under sheets
Try to find me?
Would I laugh a little softer
And feel better about myself
Standing beside her?
Would my dinners be warmer
And my occupied bed
Feel wider?

I wonder if my world were Pink
Would I be more or less of a woman;
What do you think?
Dea Elizabeth Nov 28
My first love was real love —
absolute, pure bliss.
An innocent lie,
but what good love story isn't?

My second love was **** —
passionate, destructive ****.
A hedonistic trip,
but what great love story isn't?

My third love was safe —
conventional, traditional safety.
A step back for feminism,
but what ****** love story is not?
Leeli Barton Nov 25
have you ever noticed that you never
see famous female poets who look
like marilyn or raquel or jayne?

even the girls today whose words
are celebrated can't sell their rhymes
without selling their bodies.

i guess the new femme fatale
might be less feminist than i thought:
when your looks can ****, they ******
your ideas.

when your lips pucker like roses
and your body is angelic--
we let you take our libidos to heaven
but not our minds.
Julia Rogers Nov 17
And she said
Don’t bleach your hair
If it makes you feel pretty
Or wear high heels
You’re already tall
You might take up s. P. A. C. E.

She said
A woman shouldn’t be loud
Or too confident
Because that might be threatening
To someone
Like I grew claws

And she said
Don’t think too much
How can you run a home
With your head in the clouds
To dream is to dare
Forbid it
Daring isn’t ****

How dare I
Jo Nov 10
Do not call me by your nicknames
I can see the poison dripping off your tongue
Do not touch me without consent
This body is mine and mine alone
Do not tell me to stay quiet
My words could spark a revolution
Do not try to control me
My power is unbridled and vicious
Do not mistake me for weak
I am a force to be reckoned with
Another repost from my old account
Next page