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writerReader Jan 2015
it is not very
lady like to leap
and yell with
or to run like
or to touch without asking to
kiss with
but do you mind?
Ally Gottesman Mar 2018
They said
"You must be ladylike,
And respectful,
And simple."

I steeled my anger.
I bit my tongue.

I said,
"No. I must be a fire
That scorches a path
And turns anew."
Alaina Oct 2017
Dont tell me I need to be a lady
I have a ******. By default, I am a lady
Your reality is skewed
If I cuss, so be it
If I sit with my legs open, so be it
If I let my hair go crazy, so be it
i do not need makeup to be pretty
i do not need need dresses to be a lady
i do not need a man telling me how to act
You see
I am a real lady
my rose colored glasses
cannot censor the fear
i feel in the presence of him.
like a suspect,
the lady-like lenses crack under pressure
when his hand conveniently slips
on a busy night.
bustling, blinding, blending
right into the blur are his hands
guiding my anxieties and insecurities through the roof
as he grants himself permission
to lust my body the way no one has ever done before.
and i feel the foriegn touch
unwelcome on my adolescent hips.
but still i stand with a padlock over my trembling lips.
Brianna Duffin Jan 2018
Act like a lady,
Be a lady.
Being a lady means you can take it.
You. Can. Take. It.
Because all your life you have been trained by specialized warriors,
Trained to take whatever he world throws a ou
Like a lady-
With grace, and dignity, and strength, and courage.
You a braver than you know,
Stronger than you know,
Smarter than you know.
Being a lady doesn’t mean you never doubt yourself.
It doesn’t mean you will never fail.
It means that you are capable of great things,
Things like grabbing the impossible by the *****,
Looking its demons head on,
And making it just one on the long list of your accomplishments.
Angela Rose Oct 2017
So I’m not your cup of tea?

I know, I know
I’m loud
I’m abrasive
I’m bold
I’m not ladylike
I’m too political
I’m too modern of a woman
I’m not maternal
I’m overly comfortable with sexuality
I make jokes like a man
I swear like a sailor
I don’t dab the grease off my pizza
I drink liquor from the bottle
I got some mouth on me, the audacity
I don’t filter my words
I fight when I’m right, or wrong
I push buttons and boundaries
I’m nothing short of a firecracker

So I’m not your cup of tea?
That’s okay
I’d much rather be someone’s shot of tequila, straight, no chaser
Andrew Kerklaan Mar 2013
Delicate tang spritzes the air with a sunshine kiss

Peeling so gently it's lady-like tenderness is an elegant tea party with white gloved fingers and daisies on the mantle

Her majesty will be pleased!

A romantic encounter of citrus delight and sun-bathed security in ever loving om and happiness

A candidate as sweet could never be asked for such a casual Sunday outing and for you my dear we are but a shared slice of raspberry accented pie

So powerful but yet so softly subdued...

Like piano ballads or string quartets it is here simply for our glorious consumption

An ode to you my Sunday sweet orange!

May my taste buds always dazzle upon your  arrival
This poem is the embodiment of how I feel while eating an orange on a sunny Sunday afternoon
Kenna May 2015
She likes to eat nectar-
ines. In the kitchen, on a bloated
summer day.

Hair tied back and plastered
to the crown
of her forehead.  

Fingers lazily drumming out
some country
song on the  kitchen counter.

She lets the pools of sweet,
stinging nectar
and saliva linger
on her fingers and pierce
her tear ducts.

Her mama used to
tell her to eat  
like a lady.

Starched fingers,
and dry mouth.

But you just can't  be
a lady
when you're playing
Clara Romero Aug 2014
I hate you when you catcall her
I feel the anger rise, tightly coiled in my stomach
Clench my fists and feel my blood pound,
Because I know what you do to her,
Reducing her to her body, just for your pleasure.
To you she is only a body, just another opportunity to prove
your manliness, your superiority.
Just another girl to humiliate.
I know this and my rage roars, a dragon, untamable
ready to tear into you the second you try it with me.

But then as I walk pass, the voices are silent.
No calls, no whistles,
I don't exist.
The dragon within me becomes confused,
am I really so ugly, so unwanted, so plain,
that the **** on the streets, the ******* who harass girls as they walk,
won't even look at me?
What's wrong with me?
The dragon fades and a new type of hate arises.
I hate myself, my stupid hair, my ******* up jaw, my plain appearance.
I should feel lucky for the blessed silence, the peaceful walk,
but instead I feel a nauseating sense of shame and hate for myself,
As I tuck my head down like a good girl and hurry home,
Trying not to cry.

Society has turned being harassed as a goal to reach for.
Keep telling us "it's a compliment"
And sooner or later we'll start to believe it.
But that doesn't make it true.

So I sit sharping my nails, not sure whose throat to rip out,
Yours? Or mine?
Because you've told me,
It's not ladylike for me to hate anyone,
Except myself.
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