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I woke from a dream this morning
with three penises
and three sets of testicles
sprouting from my groin

I was astonished
wondering about the implications
could they all perform?
could I have *** with three women?
or three men?
which gender did these penises prefer?
and how would that work?

or would I be too embarrassed by this mutation to ever have *** again?
I imagined a hand touching down there and felt
extreme embarrassment
no, this was definitely the end of my *** life
I would never have *** again

then something shifted
in my mind
and I woke
from THAT dream
original factory settings restored (I checked)

relieved (so relieved)

this was one problem the universe had not thrown in my lap (haha)
I can still see those tiny peckers though
like a bouquet of newborn masculinity

what high jinks
are going on
at the bottom of the ocean in my brain?
Lucy Jan 13
My life has been long and hard.
But i have survived.
My life has been stressful, and difficult.
But i have survived.
My life has been short.
but it feels long and wasted.
My life has had its ups, and downs.
every night, i lay in bed, and wonder
"Will this be my final breath?"
"Will this be the ending of it all?"
"Will this be the end of the girl named lucy?"
I just wish, that i could be free.
Free from this body.
Free from this deadname.
Free from male pronouns.
Free from this male body.
But i will never truly be free.
as long as i live.
This is like a vent but also kinda me dumping my sorrows on the internet.
hello poetry is like a safespace for me rn.
Lucy Jan 12
My pain Is Eternal.
But no one can see it. no one can feel it.
Only I can see and feel this pain.
Only I can hear it laughing at me when i look in the mirror.
Only i can feel it when someone calls me the wrong name.
only i can fix it.
but there is no hope for me.
my family cannot see or hear this pain.
only i can.
only i can fix it.
but there is no hope for this mess.
My gender dysphoria has been getting worse.
This poem describes my pain.
K E Cummins Jan 11
Am I too much?
Hard to swallow, a bitter pill?
Am I raw and unprocessed,
Undiluted, concentrated,
Too spicy for your stomach?

Good.

Choke on it.

I won’t cut myself
To bite-size pieces.
I am not a convenient product.

My feathers are not plucked,
My hair is unshorn,
My feet are unshod,
And the muscle of my thigh
Is for kicking, not meat.

Do you not like the taste?
Poor spoiled glutton,
You cannot acquire it.

Find your refined sugar elsewhere –
I do not come pre-packaged.
Got a bit *******
Audrey Dec 2024
Ladies! We were made to be eaten
Chewed up by men
Spit out
Objectified
Beaten the crap out
Put down

Who are we to judge?
We were made in God's image
We were made in man's image
We were never made in our own image

Lay down your sticks
Open your thighs
And scream at the injustice in the world
Silently
gender
Sara Barrett Nov 2024
Growing up as a girl, I watched and learned,
The truths of boys and men often go unturned.
“Boys will be boys,” a phrase we all know,
Implying that girls must shoulder the load.
This notion suggests that girls mature fast,
Leading to women who pick up the cast—
An unspoken burden, a silent decree,
To bear the weight of their irresponsibility.
In a world steeped in misogyny’s grasp,
Women face judgment; their futures unclasped.
Absorbing the shame of the games that they play,
While men to walk away, free to go on their way.
Many men abandon homes they once called their own,
Now seen as free, yet their true selves unknown.
Disgrace drapes over women like a heavy yoke—
A weight of neglect that shatters their hope.
This yoke is forged from promises unkept,
From fathers who vanish while their children wept.
He escapes guilt with practiced ease,
Dodging duty like a ghost on the breeze,
Claiming children and a wife he never knew,
While society laughs at the pain he withdrew.
Leaving his children to carry his woes—
Their identities shaped by the hurt that he chose.
His children learn quickly to shoulder the shame;
They remember who was the burden of blame—
Like he who claimed love but was never there.
Those left to carry his name feel the strain,
Learning of unfairness that echoes their pain.
Abandoned women and children continue to grow—
A daunting endeavor men wish to overthrow.
Yet shadows may linger, and burdens remain;
They’ll carve out a future where hope will maintain.
For every struggle faced will lead to the dawn—
A testament to strength as they carry on.
The poem “Left To Carry His Name” delves into the profound burdens that women and children endure as a result of men’s irresponsibility. This poem critiques the societal norms that enable men to escape accountability while women are left to shoulder the emotional and social consequences of abandonment. Through vivid imagery, it conveys the shame and struggle experienced by those who are left behind, underscoring their resilience as they strive for a brighter future. As the second piece in a series focused on gender roles and family dynamics, this work invites readers to reflect on how we can confront and change these deeply ingrained societal expectations.
Sara Barrett Nov 2024
In a society,
There’s a tree called misogyny,
Where its deep roots
Grow into all girls,
Who develop in agony,
Facing judgment that feels relentless,
Much of it unspoken, a harsh irony.
This judgment seeps into our daily strife,
Trapping us within roles that limit our life.
Narrow expectations stifle our dreams,
While society’s pressure bursts at the seams.
We’re told how to act, what to say and wear,
As if our true selves are too much to bear.
Dreams of freedom fuel our inner symphony,
A quest to end this cycle of regulatory authority.
She bears the weight of expectations,
A load shaped by herstory’s complications.
With a heavy heart, she watched the tragedy,
As blame is passed down through each family.
Inheriting struggles, a cycle we see,
Each woman’s journey marked by disparity.
Disappointments linger, like shadows they stay,
A legacy of women woven in silence and gray.
The silence among women she cherished felt heavy,
An unspoken vow that let men be merry
Free from their own responsibility,
Caught in a system that kept them confined,
With “They didn’t know better” echoing in mind.
Hiding complicity in voices suppressed,
In a world where their wisdom was rarely expressed.
Each story unspoken, a weight they all share,
Navigating life with caution and care.
Yet deep in their hearts lies a yearning to be,
More than the shadows of what they could see.
In the silence, a strength that quietly grows,
A call for the change that each woman knows.
This poem, ‘Roots of Misogyny,’ explores the deep-seated nature of misogyny and its impact on women’s lives across generations. Inspired by the stories of women in my life, it reflects on societal expectations and the silent strength that grows within. As the first piece in a series examining gender roles and family dynamics, I hope it prompts reflection on how we can challenge and change these ingrained societal norms.
Mercy Nov 2024
When I gaze into the mirror,
I see no reflection,
When they take my picture,
There is no image to capture,
It feels as though I do not exist,
No connection between my body and soul,
When silver strikes, I still feel it,
Yet I do not claim it as my own,
I yearn for a body that captures my essence,
One day,
I will confront the shadows that haunt my soul
Luca Scarrott Oct 2024
Tripping over myself, bleeding myself out
trying to confine myself
to the confines of your categories, the cages
that barricade us in. I have rapidly outgrown them and
now they splinter skin.
When should I begin to cry out?
I have seen others leave it too late —
their bodies impaled by cold, hard metal
their organs pooling on the floor, their hearts’ still beat
once, twice,
they stop.
Is it possible to shrink? tweezer out the splinters
before I am spilt
pull out my own bones until I fit.
Hypocritical to myself I encourage the cries of relief
as the brave ones
break free —
Will I be consumed? Or will I break
out
sometimes the pressures of fitting into the categories that society tries to shove us into can get overwhelming whether that's: cliques in the school setting, family expectations, gender roles, racial stereotypes, sexuality stereotypes, even the trivial desires to fit a specific aesthetic. We are categorized in a multitude of different ways, and I often struggle to see where I fit in, who am I within and without these categories? Do they (the categories) help or hinder us? This poem is about the latter, the dangers of categories, stereotypes, and expectations that mold our existence.
Lark Oct 2024
"I AM NOT afraid, i was born to do this" please, jehanne la pucelle--
here, humming, the constant
burn whilst he--inkspinner--mollifies and
****** ****** skin
I AM NOT
afraid--the hum, epauliere lying
heavy, cumbersome--my shoulders are broad and
moth eaten, trembling, waste;
mom, my canines hurt; i have to
show my teeth.
there are gauntlets in my skin, mom, licks of
fever-heat beneath my heels.
I draw the Weary longsword.
"I AM the drum." see: i too spit blood, raise the banner; are we the drum, all
you and i? watch the masses close in.
conflagration inferno round and round;
the sting of flesh, the weight,
the ache in my gums; the
drum, which GOD beats out HIS message please, mom, it
hurts. please, jehanne, it hurts please beg me BE NOT AFRAID
Not sure how I feel about the flow of this.
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