Lily Beckett Aug 5
You looked much prettier with long hair.
Don’t be like that, show me a smile
It’s better to have a more natural
look your arms are so hairy! Hairier than mine

Not rowdy or older than myself but definitely
confident and intelligent and maybe even
‘quirky’ as long as she’s thin
and kind. Because I don’t like fat girls

how to find your dream woma
where to find dream woman online free

I think I’m still in love with Grace but
she ignores and blanks and shuns me even
after I shared so much yet
she doesn’t even to care

I’m verrru drunk
I see u
the little green dot next to your name haha
night then iguess

I think I just hate women and that
stupid insipid conceited bitch
couldn’t tell a good guy if
he cuffed her clean
across the cheekbone
and spat in both her eyes
I wrote this after having to listen to and try to sympathise with a boy who seems to think women owe him the world. It reminded me of the hate and rage within the 'incel' community and the very real danger this poses to women at the receiving end.
Elle Jul 20
An open-form poem

We stand up and speak out, in voices scratchy and riddled with slang-we cry
                                                         “consent, consent and equal pay.”

Those older than us, scoff and pull our knees off the ground, they tear our signs and say,
                                    “don’t you have another boy to throw away?”

“You don’t know your rights, who do you think you are? You work as a waitress  and have acne, you must be mad to think your voice counts.”

But don’t forget to vote on Election Day.

“When I was your age I was steady- with a good job, a steady girl, and those loans paid off.”
“You are not steady, it’s because you are lazy. Too much sleep and rap music is what is making you unsteady.”

Pastors and preachers and priests, say this generation is violent and lazy
                                                           and video game sales have risen.

These kids have no sense of reality, they are emotional and gay and trans and lesbian
We cannot block their cries out any longer
Because they are us.
They are black and white and brown and feeling.
And they are us.

Our sisters, our brothers, our friends, our lovers,
our people are dying.
In shootings, hate crimes and in standing up.
         “all these young people are killing the brick and mortar stores”
you are killing my people.

We have tasted reality and we will not hold back.
And we will stand. We will rise.

Our feet will be unsteady,
but we push
and pull
and advance.

No more we will be silent.

I have a dream.
If no man walked the streets, I’d wear a pretty dress at dusk and stargaze in the park.
                                 But my fear of jeers and violence holds me back-
the dreaded “hey baby,” pounds in my head.
                                   Let me wear a dress and let me not be catcalled.

“You cut your hair.”
“It’s just a phase to cut your hair.”
“What if your future husband likes long hair?”
“Are you trying to say something with that hair?”
“Boys don’t like girls with short hair.”

As sad as it is, my story is not unique, all my friends have a story like mine. We sit at tables and drink our nonalcoholic drinks, carefully watching for the man who saw us come in.

We share tips on how to fit our keys between our knuckles, on how the elbow will hurt the most, in
                                                                 the face, stomach and groin.

We share our shame the dirty feeling after a man purposely touches your arm as you brush past him,
the shame you feel after you decline him, and he mocks you with words like
                                                                         “you were ugly anyway.”

The shame you feel when he respects your instance that you have a boyfriend, more than he respects your right to say no.

The shame is better than the potential risk of him finding out you are single; a solo woman is easier than one who has a man.
                                                            “c’mon baby, I know you want it.”
A stubborn “no” makes him declare over you;                                          
                                            “prude, no man would love you anyway.”

The boys loved me until I learned to love myself.
And then I was labeled,
stuck up.

Then they grew up and found it enchanting.
A strong woman was desirable.
Sexy. Alluring,
A challenge.
They loved it until they realized it wasn’t a front, that I wasn’t secretly insecure, they wanted me until they realized I didn’t need them.

I was raised in privilege. No gangs to fight, no mouths to feed, my rent was paid, and clothes bought new.

Am I untouched?

Has my white-fair skin erased for me, the everyday danger my brothers and sisters of color face?
and blades
they will not touch me on this pedestal of privilege.
Isn’t that what they say?
You have good grades and both parents, depression and anxiety don’t hang out in the Hamptons

Our boys are starving- abs are easier obtained with lack of food, then with diet.
Let them be beautiful.
Let them be soft.
Let them be boys.

Shame on us for telling soft boys to “man up” when they cry and then raging when our husbands and boyfriends won’t show emotion.

We are a generation saying
No more.
This must stop.
This is not how it’s supposed to be.
This is not how we will be.

We’re self-named, untamed, untouched, unridden.

Scandal. Closed doors and stilettos. Parking under street lamps and groups because there is safety in numbers.
Hiding their tears and fighting to prove they are men, toxic masculinity is all over them.

This generation of children is saying no more. We are labeled feminist, weak and selfish.
We are told
“don’t be so mean,”
“keep your pretty mouth shut,”
“you run like a girl,”

Weak, powerless.
Lazy, insecure.
Rebellious, fickle.
Ungrateful, unpatriotic.
These labels surround us.
But they are not us.

And we will stand. We will rise.
Our feet will be unsteady,
but we push
and pull
and advance.
No more we will be silent.

                              Paragraph of Explanation:
This poem is an open form poem in the style of Allen Ginsberg. I participate in a movement of using poetry as a voice for activism, hence this very political poem. To quote myself (is that even a thing) from my comments on the “what movement would you start/participate in” assignment; “Teenagers should be able to talk about social issues within the medium of literature without it being labeled as “angsty” or “moody.” This is a poetic rant against all the people who think that teenager’s opinions are not realistic or “real” opinions, on: toxic masculinity, school shootings, racism, bigotry, violence and sexism against women.
I used italics to showcase the lines that were supposed to be significant. I used alliteration, assonance, rhyme, allusion, slant rhyme and repetition. I quoted Martin Luther King's “I Have a Dream,” “and it occurs to that I am America” from Allen Ginsberg’s “America.” The “Knees off the ground” alluded to the peaceful protest of the NFL, “We’re self-named, untamed, untouched, unridden.” is from Moonlily by Marilyn Nelson. The scandal line is a nod to the recent rise in women speaking up concerning the harassment in Hollywood. Stilettos is for the issue of workplace harassment. And  I have made my open form in the style of Allen Ginsberg and from a few modern poets who have written things concerning current politics.
It’s a call to raise our voices, that we will not be silenced, it’s a call to understand that we can change the world with our words and the fact that we will.
Marguerite Jul 11
He says                          
I'm too sensitive
I want him        
Deep into our relationship, I finally see, he doesn't respect me. He dismisses me. And now he can leave.
Marguerite Jul 11
He grabbed my neck
I said
'Don't grab my neck'
It's disgusting.
"But I'm not squeazing it"
'But I DONT like it.'

my neck.
Grace Sager Jul 11
Now I’m not usually into politics
But our nation's not a firm apologists of its actions
And it’s making me quite frustrated
Seeing homeless veterans on the street
Isn’t being this small minded just a little bit outdated?
The America that we’re living in has me completely surprised
Has no one in this country ever opened their eyes?
Because our skin tone still defines us
Yeah thats without a doubt
As if the darker your skin gets the less respect your given
Is that what you want America to be about?
Immigrants are given no trust
And now our  president wants to put a wall around us
I think that’s enough
Don’t you?
They say we’re in troubled paradise but all I see is trouble
Cause the number of suicides from last year to now has nearly doubled
And not to mention
That there have been just about 22 school shootings in just this past year
Ever wonder why our country is trembling in fear
Well here’s why
Because our school dress code matters more than our gun laws
Here's why
Because our skin tone determines our value and our worth
Here’s why
Because Gay marriage was only legal just a few years ago
Here’s why
Because poverty is spreading quicker than ever
Here’s why
Because now women get harrassed on the street
Here’s why
Because some people feeling like dying everyday and the only help they’re  given is prescribed medication
Here’s why
Because women are still paid less than men
Now I suggest you go ahead and look outside
And don’t try to hide away from it all
Don’t ignore the homeless man that is dying on the street
Don’t ignore the black woman being sexually assaulted on that corner
Don’t ignore the that gay couple being rejected from their church
Don’t ignore that little girl who has to measure her shorts for school
And we are told that young or old freedom will unfold
But If that’s so
Then why has nothing changed in the past century?
And now let me ask you
Did we make America great again?
Grace Sager Jul 11
the women who came before me
were hurricanes of great power
so when the men of their time would see them, they would run away and cower

the women who came before me
were lush forests of great size
wide variations of kindness
leaving all in awe with their beautiful baby blue skies

the women who came before me
were frigid tundras of snow and ice
chilling all who came near to the touch
because the women who came before me
didn’t always like to play nice

the women who came before me
were the golden glistening sun
no matter their color, their religion, or who they loved
their radiant beauty blinded everyone

the women who came before me
were the moon, solemn and wise
always at peace and a state of zen
drawing people in and out with their eyes just like the tides

the women who came before me
were all the sparkling stars in the sky
connecting together to form constellations
beautiful enough to make you cry

the women who came before me
were so strong and so wise
they rise
they rise

the women who came before me
showed hope even in their cries
they rise
they rise

they’re souls will remain sewed
into my heart and the skies
they rise
they rise

because the women who came before me will stick by me until I die.
we rise
we rise
Rose L Jun 28
the slow encroach
stinging so, it broke the choke
and rough, coarse femininity once kept in check with wine and herbs
now slips away, and hurts.

Recalling is like
dreams of forests heaving milk and music,
an ancient memory whose dew pools in your mouth with distaste
and tulip'd sap leaks at sordid urge.
what we want is still at sea, so let the spray bite your face
taste the past in those ever-watching waters
and burn hair on the pyres for your grandaughters, and grandaughters' daughters.
Inspired by the women of ancient Greek mythology
Molly Jun 26
you were right when you said we were filled with deceit
i remember
your face consumed by fire
every pore filled with hatred and lust
well we know a thing or two about being burnt
used or dismissed at best
soon you learn to paint a smile over your scowl
hide the fire in your eyes behind a twinkle
no choice
once you ache
from dragging your body uphill by your nails
chased by pitchforks stained with blood of your sisters
but no one suspects the soft hair
soft smile
never dreamt of your skin scaly under your sleeve
pondweed hanging from your lungs like dresses
in the closet of the girl
told cross your legs be polite he only teases cus he likes you boys will be boys he has been through a lot it will never happen
again and
again and
again and
again take matters into your own hands before blood is spilt
your survival relies on your disgust smelling like flowers
your screams sounding like songs
do not talk to us about deceit until it takes the shape of a knife
Molly Jun 26
It begins with an urge. A roaring fire in the pit of the stomach
That burns the butterflies to a crisp and
Emits a glow through the skin.
The outer body, once frail
And worn from disguise
Relaxes. Like clockwork
The head is lifted
The shoulders
Pulled back
The face
Is freed
From smiling
Fake smiling, to
Please the observers.
The fire spreads, doesn’t burn
The flesh but releases energy, acceptance, she becomes undone
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