When they point out you being a female;
Reply them that they can't bleed monthly.
When they comment on your outfit;
Then you revert back to them that there are exceptions and uniques all around.
When they put you under their shoes;
Reply them that they can't bear labour pain.
When they left and abandoned you;
Reply them that you are very happy and moved on from them.
And when they come back again to put you more down;
Show them that you no longer cares of them so they don't need to retort.
Cuz you never give up at all,..
You never give up that all.
Never give up at all
You’ve infected that part of me
that cries when I’m alone
Now my tears are iron chains
that block me from the sun
I feel none
I feel none
Words can strike like swords,
leaving wounds that time can't heal;
They scar the heart and soul,
more so than iron or steel.
"I made my heart like an iron
but he came like a magnet to steal iron"
This few lines is based on my personal experience about life.
Someones make their heart is so strong. I think about myself,
i made it like an iron but still he came like magnet to steal iron.
Thanks for reading.
Iron in the stone bleeds a colour
against grey enamel,
See ticks and tocks writ on lined faces,
craning to read flickered futures
where rock-solid certainties
and metal connectivities clash
in janky dissonance
Grasping the surety of a copper coin
in a clenched fist,
the shape as sure as love and rage,
when opened, shows
the sleight of hand and thought
sold to us all
she ran until she could run no more
screamed until she could scream no more
fought until she could fight no more—
yet to save her it was never enough.
she was forged with iron, wrought of steel.
bourne of fire, taught never to feel.
she was the daughter of life, mistress to night—
grace brought of blood, fallen being of light.
she is beauty, insanity— and all in-between.
a poem I wrote about one of my characters many years ago, and just recently uncovered.
Skellums! Intae doomed countra
Ironclad ah dwell,
Claymore flashing in yon mirror,
And o'er the dreary muir.
There is a semiotic variant of this poem. It includes the image of a sword placed over a mirror as one with a medieval nasal helmet.
The truth about the world is hidden.
Records about it (because they were)
are locked in the iron mountain by a man.
Iron protects well against persistence.
For us remained only Pythagoras,
But we talk about Icarus most often
because defiantness and falling down
You can hear it (only to hear)
in a swallow's flight when cuts an air,
when puts reality like ears of grain.
The truth is in the rustle of insects,
seasons of the year,
you can see it
in circles on the water
in trees it goes on without moving
just like in rocks,
but in the spoon of tar is the most of it.
The truth is also in the emptiness of the beach:
the sound of waves often talks about it
whenever touch of dunes on the back
tickles with it.
Then you can smile
and not even know
that the body felt the story.
For us it is just a movement of the grass
on the wind.
The short story
about the truth