Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
When I was a girl
I thought I could be anything I wanted
I didn’t realize I would grow up
To be a woman
That I was forever ‘and her’
Instead of them
That my father loved me
As an exception
And I would have to witness my sisters
Wither away in happiness
I found out that I was not the ‘public’
In public transportation
That I needed to switch my grocery run times
Every now and then
Discovered the places where a hat
Could be the best weapon
On Sundays, I dress up and buy pretty roses for my table
To keep from remembering that
If someone wanted
There was nothing I could do to stop them
Sadness overtakes me for all my sisters and friends out there...
The winter breeze comes to rob the trees of their leaves.
With those leaves flows her light linen layer.
The shawl isn’t nearly enough to combat the cold,
So why would he be?

She shivers, the air’s frigidity insulting her sleek bronze surface.
“Let me hold you,” he says, “you’re so beautiful.”
Her eyes downcast and her knees pinch.

“Look at those beautiful eyes,” he says,
“Why don’t you will them to look into mine?”

She lifts them, heavy, and absently meets his.
Her lashes are frosted white.
The hypothermia wouldn’t take long to take her.

Her mind pleads, help, help, help,
But her thoughts seem to be freezing slowly at the same rate as her body.
Her lips tremble and crack as she separates them.

“Look at those beautiful lips,” he says, “Come here and let them meet mine”
She tightens the shawl to her skin, but it’s already lost all sense.
She’s already losing all sense.

“Don’t be ashamed,” he says, “you’re so beautiful.”

Her arms tense, but the light fabric seems fleeting from them.
Her light mind,
Fleeting from her…

His arms open,
“Come here, beautiful, why don’t you see?”

She whimpers, shakily, a plea:
“please.”

She crumples into his arms.

“You’re so beautiful, why don’t you see?”
“I don’t want to be beautiful,” she says,

She falls right through.
He was never there.

“I want to be alive.”
Based on the sculpture 'Winter', made by Jean Antoine Houdon in 1787
Drab Oct 20
Having a beard is like…

Having a ***** on my face.

That smells bad.

And leaks.

But is necessary for humanity to continue.
Notes I love cats

Also, Lesbians' ("moins être un(n)' for you french fries),  will understand
Locked into place.
Orwell’s boot on our face.
The human tragedy.
The human disgrace.
We slept with the enemy;
accepted his embrace.
“Aren’t things better now?”
they say; and it can’t be denied–
some things are better.
But is the difference so wide?
“Isn’t it enough, what I do for you?
Do I have to be perfect, too?”
No one is perfect. And I have gratitude.
But I’m waiting, still waiting
for one thing from you:
Admit what’s been done,
by your kind (and yes, you)
Don’t pretend to be blind.
Admit what we gave.
And what you received.
Admit what you took.
And how we weren’t believed.
When you bear this witness,
When you testify
We’ll be friends forever,
You and I.
Most men aren't sexist pigs. The problem is that they won't admit other men are.
The darkness of my own kind shoots daggers through my soul
Their eyes with the last flicker of light leave my saddened thought
How could one akin to me have a heart as black as coal?
The string of fate the ones different they have fought

Even with similar address, together not alike
Different to another, both disbanding
Never did anything except teach how to fight
Similar from another, neither understanding
A poem I wrote about misogyny I have witnessed from the perspective of a trans man
Brian Turner Aug 26
I want to be a nice narcissist
perhaps a mediocre misogynist
being comfortable being uncomfortable
maybe a polite and pleasant *****

In my world I
control everything
my destiny is written 'n
your value has been calculated 'n summed up

I am the author of your future
Trading you for something else is modern day barter
converting you into money, a simple task and honey trapping your friend into a
pyramid scheme just a wave of my hand.

my confidence is soaring
don't threaten me with your matrix media
your questions are not relevant
my questions are your mandate

you have to listen because I love you
I can give you what you want
take you from your broken body and make you my creation

I have become a figure of hate
no wait.....
fk this, fk this, I'm no Andrew Tate
Notes  having reluctantly watched the Andrew Tate program on Discovery+
David Hilburn May 23
****, knowing you
Straight fingers and sated backs
Where has an image of power, been?
Liberty in a handful of flowers, is what lacks?

Curiosity, at the price of privilege?
Somber hands, are we a callous voice?
Hindrance and silence, with a taste for religion?
Has a coping integrity, that supports my choice

Dread has known so many...
Future shadows, and the grace to be a caring
So if, in the name of this, the poise of lending
So it, in the name of bliss, a waited hand full of daring

So in, to be the confusion of a composed face
Placed in wishes that came and went, with muses
Such a shrill note, to look and see the stare we pace
Sorrow and defiance, forever married to a chastity, which enthuses:

Arbitrary liberty's name for pride...
Succor and decision's vex, to remember the pardon
Of my wealth of sunshine and grounded method, to a sighed
Welcome to needs life, to a haste's treasure that is only, a life's question?
At the eleventh hour, a haste of etcetera's with a cold shoulder?
David Hilburn Apr 22
Was sexier fun
Asleep, when thumbs excite...
The reason we wait on home
Is a secret in the wind, might?

Patient couth, with curves
Have asked us to walk by
And say hello to what worths
Seldom in love, a taste of pretty why?

Soap
And the honor, of a glaring
With the times, and a little hope
Hot on staring heels, we find caring

To be a magnificent kiss
Dragons with needy eyes first
A whole moment, alone in a world is...?
A wish to become better, before worst...

Do children know these things?
Do adults share what wisdom saw?
Do canny austerity, save any being?
Do a safer show of sensitivity, begin at home?
Feeding the first one home, when you never left, when only thoughts will do
Chelsea Quigley Dec 2023
Look at me,
How slick and sleek.
A lipstick to wear
With blush on my cheek.

A corset tied tight
To cut my breath.
A queasy,
Uneasy
Feeling lingers through my chest.

You took my neck,
One hand down my vest.

But I look my best,
As you say to the rest.

I am worthy now,

I have passed your test.
This poem is about women's beauty standards, and how men tend to 'rate' women based on their looks. How women feel pressured to look and act a certain way to win validation from men. If you can relate to this, please know you are beautiful just the way you are!
Next page