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the readers,
the critics,
the opinionated
are like cicadas,
you don’t hear
from them for a
while but when
the time is right,
they swarm together
and bring the noise.

and lately,
I’ve been receiving
an outpouring of hate mail
from my fellow correspondents
with passionate responses
to my writing that have
enthralled me,

not so much that
I’m writing poorly
but what l’m writing
about infuriates them.

their tongues swirling around
like vultures
in their perfect mouths to
quickly judge my take on the
subject matters of woman,
my drinking and my negative
outlook on life and work.

loosely painting describing
words in my direction,
calling me
a misogynist,
a pessimist and
a diseased drunk...

a misogynist? how so?
I love women and
I’m happily married to one
but you’d have a better
understanding if you met
the ***-crazed, pill-popping,
drug-induced alcoholic women
I once shacked up with.
I only illustrate the unbelievable
reality of it all.

next, my drunken poetry...
whether its drinking or writing
or both, it all feels like a
children’s tabernacle choir
of glory, singing hymns and
lifted by a celestial symphony
when there’s absolutely
nothing to do...
I keep my barstool warm
and my beer cold

and finally,
the pessimism in my poems.
I don’t live this life with a
white picket fence around me
where everything is positive
and delicate and bright.
art has a balance,
poetry has a balance
and there are two sides
to everything and how
I perceive in this world
and what I create is a
bit darker and uglier
than most grey hearts
with grey laughter,
laughing at nothing
and I brisk for the smile.
I wake up hungover and
I work a terrible job and
I’ve been served the
poisons of the world
and for that, I only have
myself to blame, but
all the trouble makes
for good writing
so I continue
to keep my head down,
chew my food with my
mouth closed and shine
the shoes for the living
that walk among
this desperate land.

the judgments seem to be
ill-fitting to the persona but
I’m very fortunate to receive
this kind of mail because it
whispers in my lonely ear
that I made someone feel
something in my writing,
whether the outcome was
to inspire or offend.
I’m happy to know
that they felt it
because I felt it too
and the blackbirds
of success
swoop down
and gobble up
the inch worm
of self-doubt
and failure.
the dead bird Feb 2016
why don't you
the man says,
looking at me.

you old thing,
the child says,
kicking the dead bird.

I'm not going to smile
to look pretty for you
a sight to see
a sight for sore eyes
I am not
a dog.

in my
my ex would tell me
every day
to clean his room
clean the basement
do the laundry
if i didn't
I was treated
like a bad
made to look at the mess
it was not mine.
many times,
when I did
it wasn't sufficient
"I *******

clean it yourself,
but no,
I did.
even when
I didn't like you.
even when
I hated you.

when I was 19
at the bookstore
a man
told me to get him
a card,
could have reached it
could have done it
guess I misheard him
and got him the wrong one
"are you ******?!"
in his thick
"****** girl
get me
a napkin.
throw it out
throw it out
I said"

you can't be any
good at video games,
you're a girl.

you can't be
you're just doing it
for attention.

you can't
wear that
and expect people to respect you
expect people
not to harass you
expect people
to think you're smart
expect people
to not think you're a

I am a ****
for being confident with my body
for being comfortable
my sexuality
for being open
my orientation
for enjoying
then yeah, I am
I am not ashamed
of any of those things
and they do not make me
less of a

tell me
to smile.
tell me
what to do
when to do it
I will do
what I want
whenever the ****
I want

I won't
I will wear
tank tops
and makeup
and beat your ***
in every video game
make you feel
I will
speak my mind
have opinions
I will
read literature
educate myself
educate others
I will
have ***
with whomever I want
safely, but
without any shame

I will
im trying to write a poem every day and oops its 12am and i didn't write one oops oops oops (this counts)
OliviaAutumn Nov 2014
The fragility of female flesh,
The feminine depth within each pore
Hides a deep havoc beneath glowing embers,
A storm man fears and calls a *****.
meowddy Sep 2014
I am proud of my stretch marks
they are war paint
for the battle people call life

I am proud of my thunder thighs
they make it easier to
smash the patriarchy

I am proud of my chub
it keeps my heart warm
against the cold winds of people's insults

no longer will I let misogynistic views
control my life and
decide my social standing

and no longer will I be told that
I'm pretty "for a fat girl"
or smart "for a fat girl"
or kind "for a fat girl"

because fat is not a taboo word
and longer will I let you
define who I am with a simple word
that cannot hurt me

— The End —