“Son,
Bite your nails and make them rough like the burliness set beside you.
Don’t let tears fall like streaked sweat along the fabric of your skin
And speaking of your skin,
Let it dry;
Dry it with the blood of your heart so that men will nod and boys will bow to your feet,
The same way a curtain sways at the touch of strong wind
Let your strong limbs, your embedded masculinity rise within
And roar.
Take down all the boys and rise
Like a man.
Let your hands clash
Like a man.
Let your emotions die and your body live
Like a man.

Stop laying your hands on your hips while you speak.
Stop allowing your razor to cut strands off your legs.
A real man has hair,
Hair that flows like strings across the frame of your limbs
And your sides,
The space between your thighs
And speaking of which,
Let your emotions flow inside a woman for her to love you.
Love a woman like the woman she is,
And be a man like the man you are.
But certainly,
Most importantly,
Act. Like a man.

Show her what’s between your legs
And love what’s between hers.
She won’t refuse
And she won’t cut back.

She loves men.
She only loves men.
She is a girl,
And she’ll only love you if you act like a man.
You must act like a man.
You must dress like a man.
Strip off the layers of feminine odor
Take off that necklace,
Take out that mindset
Undress from that dress of indecisiveness
And appreciate what I gave you.
Clean up those cosmetics.
Clean up your act.
Quit quietly cooking that head of yours
Into the land of ridiculousness.
Change what those demons have created
And act. Like a man.”

But father,
What is a man.
Is a man someone who differs from those with different heads.
Is a man someone who keeps his hair short but his ego long.
Is a man someone who dwells in their own glory but refuses to acknowledge the worth of others.
Is a man tall?
Is a man short?
Is a man big?
Is a man small?
Is that a man who walks the streets in pursuit,
A cigarette dangling from his dead fingers.
Is that a man who feels the soft skin of a flower
Yet too ignorant and too lazy to care for it
So they pluck her while she’s still pretty
Then when bored, leave her to dry in the midst of a desert.
Is that a man who dares call a woman prude upon refusal
Yet easy when she accepts.
Is that a man who lingers on his own masculinity,
Entrapped in his bodily scent of hormones
Yet too ignorant to recognize the life he could have
If, just if,
He gave a look into the reflection of the water
Just to see himself for once.
Is that a man who makes false claims
Yet lives in complete hypocrisy.
Is that a man who has the nerve to defend lost causes when a woman speaks the truth?
Then I am not a man.
I am not a man.
I never was.

I never was confined in the stereotype you set aside for me,
Nor was a piece in the patriarchy
That was once built with honor
Now wrecked with the tomb of lies that all who were the norm,
Remain the norm,
And stay the norm,
Holding power over all for their own benefit.

I never was a man,
Never like a man,
And never will be a man.

If a man is all you told me to be,
If a man is what all you claim,
If a man is what you took from your father
And gave to your own,
Then I am not that man.

They weren’t demons.
They were me.

Aditi Apr 5

silently whispers

You're not the allegation of any guy who blames you for leading him on because you have two fatty sacs on your chest.

silently whispers

Your tears don't absolve you of your masculinity, nor your gentleness is something to mock about. Don't let anyone tell you any different.

silently whispers

You are not the lustful touches they give, or the hungry stares. If a man finds you dirty after he has touched you, tell him to look at his own hand.

silently whispers

You're not entitled to give it to someone, or enjoy what has been forced upon you, cause it is a sick imagination of someone else. Your gender does not determine if you're a victim or the culprit, deserving the punishment.

Please don't ever think you're supposed to sit still when someone's hand over stays their welcome, and stray to other places, where they were not invited because everyone says your gender Is supposed to enjoy any sexual act.

silently whispers
You're not the intentions or the dirty implications of someone who compliments you, neither you accept their unsaid offer when you say thank you.

And when you talk of things like that, you're not supposed to stagger, when they speak out loud-" but I have never done that". Not you, maybe, buy definitely someone else.

speaks out loud
A crime does not stop because you refuse to participate in it, or if you decide to close your eyes. You can't dismiss a problem because you never had it happen to you.
It's not a girl or a boy, who is sexually abused.
It's a person.
Please, proceed onwards after you have this understood

Sexism works both ways

He says "Geek Poet!
Leave the politics alone
Stick to Pop culture"

Cousin.
Politics ARE Pop culture.
don't you see?

in a world where businesses
buy natural disaster insurance
In fear of presidential tweets
McDonald's burger vending machines
You think this isn't dystopia?

We play games to escape.
where can we go
when the "real world"
is just as scary
upside down?

Tell me, Cousin.
Where do you write your poetry?
is it safe?

Do you surround yourself with muses?
back turned to a naked woman?
is there whiskey on the bar,
A journal,
your favorite pen?
Your cell phone,
clentching in the public restroom?

because no matter where you are.
that sanctuary
is a fucking pillow fort
compared to the Fort Knox
of an artists imagination

politics ARE pop culture
China is throwing unfathomable
amounts of money into Propaganda
targeting millennials though memes.
Fish don't see water, remember?

You are telling me
I can't write about politics.
There are Americans
who have never voted,
Radical left and right facebook profiles
protecting and attacking A Racist,
selfish, blemish on our history.
you wonder why we are scared, Cousin?

You want to know why I am so loud?

I watch Men step alligator shoe
out of Boston limousines
Slicked back hair straight
from wolf of wallstreet
belligerent screaming
"I do what I Waaaaaaant!"
"She does what she waaaaaaaaaaaaants!"
"We do what we waaaaant!"

This is the world
we're escaping from.
Excuse me if I break
from the zombie jokes
The vampire romances
Focus on the dead bodies
in our own city, Cousin.

Our demons are real now.

dystopian literature
called for the 2017 election
as far back as the 1930s'

Senator Buzz Windrip
from "It can't happen here"
by Sinclair Lewis
makes promises
to "return America to a better time".
back in 1935

buying validity for his ideas
in airtime on the radio,
tarring those who disagree,
as tools of mother russia,

dismissing woman,
as silly socialists.
naming the press
"a lot of irresponsible wind bags."

In the book "Parable of the talents",
Octavia butler Predicts a "Pox" In 2015
Wiping most of the population.
President Andrew Steele Jarret
promising to return the country
to an "Older Simpler time".
She wrote this book in 1998

Want to learn how to defeat Trump?
Read "Our Twisted Hero,"
by Yi Munyol

Read "In the Heart of the Valley of Love, "
by Cynthia Kadohata

All of these Dystopian fantasies
Prepare the Geeks
to rise up and fight.
Pop culture is the only thing saving us
Knowledge is the only thing saving us
Standing up,
Making art,
Being loud
is the only thing saving us
from the red button
in the orange hands
of the man who NEVER Had
the best words,

Because we do.

Repeat After me:

We The Artists
The Geeks who shall inherit
Swear to protect our words.
We will not bow,
bend,
or break.
Ink is the blood of prophets
The voice is a weapon

Excuse me if I fight
For education over distractraction.
Forgive me for preaching
Art as our gospel.

you can't Incite Revolution
by throwing dice at ghosts.

I am sick of being tall
because my friends
are too busy crawling
I'm putting all my stat points into
inspire

Let me incite placebo healing
for a small fraction
of the tortured
anxiety pretzels I walk along
each day.

I will spit
on anxiety paper-cuts
from this paperback of bigotry
in our future history
labeling myself neosporin prayin'
God,
PLEASE
let me be charismatic enough.

Kimberly Eyers Mar 16

Women
are not mysterious.

We are not shrouded
in cloaks made from the night sky.

We are not anomalies
or irregularities in the data.

Our nature has been hidden
from men, by men.

We have not been studied;
Not extensively, thoroughly, over centuries.

Not the way men have been, either.
There was no equal footing in
analyses.

Women were test subjects, when men were patients.
When we were "relevant" at all.

This pattern literally kills us quicker.
In medicine, and love.
In the office and the bedroom.
In the workshop and the nursery.

In the kitchen.

In the kitchen.

Some food for your soul:

Everyone is magical.
You don't need a pointy hat and a vagina.

Everyone is intellectual.
You don't need spectacles, white skin, or a penis.

Everyone is environmental.
Just go outside.

You just need to be you.

Subscribing to the binary
and rejecting it completely:
One ties your hands,
the other your feet.

Be all the parts of you. Then you can feel
Whole.

Dameon Smith Dec 2015

Land of the Free
Yet ranks 20th in the world
Land of the Free
Unless you aren't
White, rich, and male
Unless you aren't
Christian or Atheist.
Slam the borders!
Americans insist
Keep them out!
Let no one in!
Land of the Free
We sing
And chant
Land of the Free
Proud are we
Land of the Free
But not.

requiEM Mar 12

I was taught to love you from birth
You raised me and taught me, watched me grow
As I'm older, you've changed
Rearranged the priorities I thought you had
I've had a hunger for knowledge for years
I thought you did too

Yet you yell about 'them'
'They're ruining america'
'I don't want them near me'
How did you raise me, how did I not know all this time?

How did you hold me in as an infant, with your arms balled up in fists?
How did you kiss me with poison on your lips?

I am from you, you are in me
Take my blood and let it reach your veins
I am immune to whatever plagues these childhood heroes
Maybe they got lost along the way
I've tried to help, but the poison takes over
Clouds their thoughts, they yell

I've looked up to them for twenty years
twenty ways they've wronged me
twenty ways they've hurt me
and twenty years still, I will love them
Because I will not kiss my children with poisoned lips
The poison stops with me

No.

I'm so sick of being told what I can and can't do.
"You can't do this, try this instead."
They aren't asking me; they're telling me.
I don't want to do that, I want to do what I said I wanted to do before.
Then I'm told that I am an ungrateful bitch, a spoilt brat, a miserable cow,
When in reality I'm not.
I'm not an"ungrateful bitch".
I'm not a "spoilt brat".
I'm not a "miserable cow".
I'm a strong, independent woman who knows what she wants, and is constantly told "no".

People say you can tell a lot about a woman's style by what her nails look like.
For my mother, acrylics with baby pink sparkly french-tips.
For the blonde sitting at the nail dryer, coral.
Something about the color
looks strange with her new engagement ring.
She talks about how the second time she hung out with her fiancé
she asked him to paint her nails.
Her mother, who she insist she'll pay for, gets french tips.
They look new and fresh in contrast to her tarnished wedding ring.
The little girl with skinned knees and bug bites sitting in the chair across from me asks for blue polish on her toe nails.
Her mother tells her she should get pink.

2.
The act of women getting their nails done reminds me of warriors being armed for a fight.
long acrylics,
pointed,
rounded,
squared,
all fit for different types of battle.
Pointed for the woman who has to walk home alone at night,
rounded for the woman in the workplace who must work harder than her male co-workers,
and square for the woman at home raising her kids to know that strength and kindness
are the same thing.


3.
The women who work here speak better English than most high school students.
And their accents tell stories that I will never know.
An older woman speaks loudly and slowly,
she treats them as if they do not understand.
She will not speak to anyone but the owner; she wants him to translate what she wants to the salon workers.
What she doesn't realize is
that she is the only person here who doesn't understand.

4.
The little girl's doll is named Tessa.
She tells me that she likes my hair and shoes,
even though she has been told not to talk to strangers
twice in the last hour she has been here.
She asked her mother for change,
we all assume it's for the gumboil machine in the corner.
She puts all of it in the charity jar.
I hope this girl never changes.

5. Having bare nails in a nail salon
feels the same as being naked in public.

6.
I feel terrible for laughing at the women trying to walk in those little salon flip-flops.
Some look like ducks,
others look like trained Barbies;
marching
newly polished,
ready for the world to chip away their coating
over,
and over,
and over again.
A bit of an untraditional poem, heavily inspired by Facts Written from an Airplane by Sierra DeMulder.
Francie Lynch Jan 31

In an aside at the pub the other day,
I commented that the hockey player
Looked like a French-Canadian.
I was called a racist for that.
(but he did)

While watching some Miss Pageant
With her the other night,
I commented that all the women
Are beautiful enough to be crowned.
Now I'm a sexist.
(they were gorgeous)

For the sake of argument, I am a religionist.

I'm against Jihads, but I'm not Jihadist.
I don't go goo goo over babies,
So I suspect someone will say I'm an infantist.

She texted, saying she wants to fix the fight.
Well, I am a pugilist,
And I know when the fight's been fixed.

Nora Jan 28

She’s soft and smells like rose petals
Yet she scratches and scrubs
At blood red skin even though
It’s been washed a million times before
Tired eyes meet their match
In the silvery visage of their oldest friend

Crimson lips part, then furl
At the reflection who’s no longer a youthful girl
Auburn hair tumbling out of place,
Aging actress falling far from grace,
One clenched fist in a lace white glove
Eyelids dripping as she screams above

insp. by joan crawford
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