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Arawyn Nov 10
I'm sorry for my hair
and I'm sorry for my nails.
I'm sorry for my cheekbones and my eyebags (oh so frail)
I'm sorry if I was too loud,
Or if I was too quiet.
I'm sorry for my stomach, will it be better if I diet?
And oh I'm sorry for saying sorry
And I am sorry for thinking too much... too little or too less
I'm sorry I'm such a mess.
I am sorry if I pick, if I scratch or if I bite.
I'm sorry for wearing heels, was I too short, was my dress too tight?
After all, I'm just a woman,
Saying sorry is just my job.
Because if I don't apologise for breathing,
Then I must be a snob.
I've stopped saying sorry.
Sara Barrett Nov 5
You wanted a woman, full of love’s embrace,
Unscarred by doubt, in a gentle space.
But not one wiser, shaped by her fight,
Learning from truths that emerge in the night.

You sought a woman with eyes that could shine,
Yet never imagined they’d see through your lies.
Not just a listener to every word spun,
But one who speaks boldly, knowing she’s won.

You demanded a woman, strong and refined,
But not one to build a life intertwined.
Just a rare jewel to keep on display,
Reaping the labor you forced her to pay.

Yet here she stands, like a fire untamed,
Refusing to dim or be easily claimed.
Her spirit forged by moments unkind,
Each scar a story, each story aligned.

She no longer waits for approval or praise,
No longer trapped in your self-serving maze.
Step by step, she has found her own path,
Unafraid of her power, unscathed by your wrath.

Accepting no less than the respect she deserves,
The kind you give freely, but she now reserves.
She now sees the heights she’s destined to reach,
Aware that your ego can’t bear her to breach.

Her self-assurance glows like the sun’s warm rays,
Marking the end of your manipulation days.
And perhaps that’s why—deep down, we both know—
You never took the time to see her grow.

You ignored her strength, overlooked her pain,
Blind to her progress, immune to her gain.
But now, as she rises, unyielding and true,
She steps from your shadow into a sky wide and blue.

How far she has traveled, how much she has won,
No longer tethered; she’s embraced who she’s become.
This poem powerfully captures the journey of a woman's self-discovery and empowerment. It explores themes of resilience, strength, and independence, using vivid imagery to contrast the expectations placed upon her with her true, unyielding nature. The verses highlight her transformation from being undervalued and constrained to embracing her power and potential. Each section reflects her growth and determination to break free from manipulation and claim the respect she deserves. Ultimately, "Flame of Empowerment" is a celebration of self-assurance and the triumph of finding one's path, unafraid and unapologetic.
Kamini Oct 30
Finally the sun has come out from behind the clouds to dry my wet cheeks. A gentle breeze hums through the trees and the sound of a blackbird singing anchors me in the moment. My heart is grateful for this green buffer of solace amidst a world gone crazy. Whilst the angry mobs, baying for blood, stalk the streets of a crumbling power hungry paradigm, there are glimmers of light appearing on the horizon as many more souls gather in love to dance to the beat of a different drum.

Once again I feel myself dwelling on the margins, quietly retreating to the edges to join my witchy ancestors, watching and waiting for the storm to pass.

My bones hold the memories of the burning times as I sink into the quiet earth and the cool wind caressing my skin brings some relief. Walking on the razors edge of longing for connection and needing to lie low, to hunker down in the one place I can feel safe, alone.

Around me I see signs of the storm passing and new buds appearing with the promise of another flowering and harvest to come. In the warm evening light, that kisses the tips of the leaves, a gentle smile wraps itself around my heart and a glimmer of hope returns. ‘This too shall pass’, the wind whispers, ‘this to shall pass’…
Eleanora Sep 4
This poison you feed me
This head wound
Inflicting and compounding;
You will never understand

You size me up
In funhouse mirrors,
Tape measures all stretched out
Because you hate me
And so I cry

I’m sorry, I’m sorry,
I’m sorry I’m so big
I want to be small
Teach me to be small
Or, instead,
Teach me not to have a face
So you do not see me anymore
Please

The sweetness of a dehydrated body,
Tired, weak, blameless,
Addicted
Downing only buckets of saccharine hatred
It smells like cancer and bubblegum,
And that’s just as well

It tastes like
Blood
Spicy Digits Sep 4
You scream
"NORMAL!, NORMAL!"
Drunk on ego.

You dream in whiteness
And self-pleasure to
Freud's mother.

Nimble sausage digits
Scribble words
That become homelessness.

You pathologise honesty
Diagnose innocence
And reduce real intelligence
To page number 245.

You call us children
While talking from yours,
Soiled and terrified.  

Little boy be gone.
You have made your mark.
A skid mark, a mark nonetheless.
Kamini Jul 30
If the red box
were yellow
Or square
Or round
Or blue
Or Green,
Short or tall.
If it were of wood,
Or paper,
Maybe cardboard
Or bamboo.
If it were you
Or me
Or both…
Or not red at all
What would that mean?
Jade Aug 2023
We are wo
morpheme for
man.

But I see your pain, sisters.

I acknowledge it.

I validate it;

I gift us the vowel
e

w o e

for we will not stay broken
while men claim the throne to

whole
every time
i speak my own
name i taste
the blood of
my mother's bit
lip (&) held tongue-- a self shed
to take rein

o' my father's flatiron
sur/name:
the blood, reigned (&)
i remain—
sanguine & ruddy
after all
(these broods).
thoughts on immigration, identity, class & patriarchy.
maria Jul 2023
I yelled at him until my lungs lost their air and my throat felt raw.
Yes, he had wronged me, but somewhere deep inside, I knew I was screaming at the one hundred men standing in line behind him.
He became the face and the voice of all the men I hate,
the men who have shut me up,
cut me off,
pushed me down,
run me over.
He has begun to remind me of the angry man in my house,
the man who r*ped me,
wronged me,
used me,
left me.
When I say that I hate him to his face, in some ways, I do. Yet, somewhere deep inside, I know I have been harboring and fueling a hatred that was left to fester by someone long before him.
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