Make Hollywood Great Again.
It's the next new slogan, sans the men.
It'll be like Jolly Olde England,
The Elizabethan style, if you get what I mean!
Inverse women bejewelled in cod pieces
Preying on the men.
Not in an English accent, but more American:
Bollocks won't mean the same;
Cuckold won't make sense,
But all the phenomenal men we know
Will need to share the pants.
Our yesterdays are foreign shores,
With unusual customs.
Among us are worm-holers,
Using foreign words
Like Whitey, Nigger, Pussy, Indian.
A woman's place...
A child should...
Are you a man...
Our boundaries have shifted.
Isolationism, provincialism, racism,
All derogatory isms
Are placed in a time capsule,
Not to be opened by this civilization,
This new country for ex-pats.
I will not be afraid,
in dark alleys
or empty parking lots.
I will not be afraid,
when the predatory glances
I'm not a girl,
I'm a woman,
and I don't smile,
Everything about me,
from the shine of my hair,
to the dirt on the bottom of my heels
is regal from the moment it touches me.
Because I'm a queen,
and I was born to reign.
The alleys are my red carpet,
theatre seats are my throne.
Nothing that I set eyes on is allowed to alarm me.
Inside of me,
I carry a miracle,
an ability beyond the comprehension
of the opposite sex,
and outside of me,
I am disguised as a mere mortal.
I'm capable of going to battle
with the wildness and ferocity of a pride of lions,
and returning home to grace my loved ones with a softness that is so tender
that it could kill with it's heart-aching gentleness.
I'm capable of whatever I wish,
or taking it.
I'm capable of building civilizations
and destroying them.
I am a queen.
Whether I am a queen in a smart suit and stilettos,
or a queen in sneakers and sweats,
I'm a queen.
So fear me,
and be warned-
I refuse to bow to the evil that has been committed against my kind before.
I refuse to bow to the terror.
I refuse to bow at all.
I'm a queen.
I'm a damn queen.
Dear boy in my science class
who tries to turn every feminist word that comes out of my mouth into an
Dear old man at church
Who thinks my ‘pretty mouth’ moves too much...
Sorry, not Sorry
I know you're afraid
that opening my lips
might release some of the secret you keep locked up in a box,
garded with watch dogs, and mouths paid to be quiet
The secrets of oppression and hidden equality
Secrets of the girls you shut up
And degraded until they stop asking you to stop.
Until they couldn’t muster the energy to squirm out of your grip
I will scream out your fears
I will open the latch
Pass out your secrets like flyers to everyone who will take them in
Who will listen
Maybe I’ll tell how you didn’t listen
How you never-listened
You always took what you wanted and ran
Laughed if we threatened to tell
Said no one would listen
I have all ears on me.
And I am standing here,
Slingshot in hand
Aimed at you giants
At you monsters
Ready to shoot you down with a single shot.
I am Ma’am.
Ma’am I am.
And if I order
green eggs and ham
at the café,
you can say,
“We don’t serve that here,
Miss, I’m not.
I am not Miss.
is a dis.
Take a look,
and you’ll see this:
I’m 53, not 18.
I may be older than I seem,
but my days of girlhood are long gone.
And to call me “Miss” would just be wrong.
So call me “Ma’am;” it’s what I am.
You might think “Miss” is hip or flip,
but if you call me that there’ll be no tip.
Smoke out your devils—
shoot them on sight.
Pestilence, as it is known,
in the minds of men,
who were taught not to cough
when their lungs
swum with a pervasive
has there been a time,
when we didn't cloak bodies,
cooled with disbelief,
and stowed away with the
There is a leak in my heart where you shoved your coarse fingers in so impertinently.
I exposed my soul for you, revealed my naked body for you to see,
but you watched and all you really saw were the parts that aroused your virility.
I gave you an ultimatum, but, to you, the rest of me was like the speed fines that you were never going to pay.
You devoured my dreams with a mouthful of empty promises and destroyed them,
now you're an epitome manliness...
A scarecrow in the clean eyes of anyone capable of accepting all my peculiarities.
You say that I left you,
but here I sit on the sidewalk, desolated.
We don’t have to be pretty for you.
We don’t have to fake it ‘til you’re through.
We don’t have to wear high heels.
We don’t have to give you giggles and squeals.
We don’t have to be “feminine.”
We don’t have to take it on the chin.
We don’t have to wear a low-cut dress.
We don’t have to forgive you when you confess.
We don’t have to wear short skirts.
We don’t have to smile when it hurts.
We don’t have to stop talking.
We don’t have to stay, if we want to be walking.
We don’t have to be entertaining,
and we’ve had enough of your blaming and shaming.
We’ve had enough of secrets and silence.
We’re calling you out on your threats and your violence.