She did not know
if she had been cut from birth
or if they had done it to her
when she was just a child,
barely old enough to remember, shrouded
her in the stinking, clingy breaths of obedience
until she had learned
to succumb to the robotics, to finally
trash her emotions,
crush them to ashes.
Perfection was hard to maintain.
stop holding your children to unrealistic standards 2k19
Paint is never quite the shade we imagined.
The lines are never straight enough.
The page always looks a little too blank.
There are perfections in every imperfection,
Buried under crossed out lines and
crumpled pieces of paper.
Every eraser-stained, college ruled notebook
full of half-baked ideas and smudged words that
just don’t quite feel right.
The final product is in there somewhere,
like black-out poetry stitched together,
and transformed into something beautiful.
- x marks the spot
written for my second prompt in Creative Writing - an ars poetica
From the time we put a face to beauty
We alter how we view ourselves
She tells herself she will never compare to
Pretty face that
But she is that
She is this woman who looks for pretty in all the wrong places
When pretty is she
It may hurt her to realize she is pretty
From the substantial amount of makeup
To the outfits she takes hours to find
Putting in so much time to pretty..
For the world
But in reality
Pretty face that
She is the woman who takes off all of what she puts on
So when the day is over
When pretty is she who is looking into the mirror at me
When I judge myself
by other people's standards
I feel like a loser
and become unhappy.
When I free myself
from other people's standards
and focus on discovering
how to be joyful and happy
in the present-moment
in my everyday life
then I become
The bee was forbidden from kissing flowers.
Out of the hive, she found her free will. Though
her wings fluttered under heavy turbulence.
Amazed, by the liberty that flowers held in petals, all around
She began to work on arousing subjects, in the playground.
Irises, roses, fuschias and sunflowers.
Purple, red, pink and yellow- for endless hours.
Her mouth met many lips, sensing negative charges
She finally understood that natural energy was harmless.
Satiated, by her existential discoveries in The Garden
She returned to the tall trees to receive her pardon.
But along the path home she was surrounded.
The colours melted and mixed into grey and brown.
Unable to control the velocity to self-discovery,
Wary droplets of perfume sprayed in cries.
It was then she found her guise,
Judged by those who told lies,
Reached into her abdomen and prised,
No fail-safe to catch her from the skies.
boys are taught not to hit girls
but they will cause
even more damage
it’s like you’re saying
that boys are punching bags
& that girls are dart boards
to fire words at
& to **** & poke.
teach our young equally.
teach them how to love,
not who not to fight.
teach them how to speak
truth & kindness,
not what not to say.
teach them to pour
sweet nurturing nectar
from their souls.
& the next time
you shame a man
for defending himself
against a woman
who attacks him,
or let a man get away
with his pride of
not harming a woman
with his hands
when you see he does it
with his tongue
or mind instead,
of your duty to
lead the next generation.
remind yourself of
how everyone should be
& cared for.
if i have children
i will teach them
& not becoming
of a human being.
it doesn't matter
whether it's physical
whether they are
a boy or a girl.
it is never okay
to hurt someone.
not all bruises are purple;
not all words are audible.
lassie basher: scottish slang for a male who hits a female. i would hear this growing up as the reason for why boys couldn't defend themselves or play fight with girls as kids. it annoyed me because the reason should be because violence is wrong, not because we are female.
You keep telling me that Im pretty but I never believe you, because of all the ones before you that told me that I'm not
Society tears down alot more than it builds up and no amount of bandages can fix the damage done to one's psyche
What do you say?
Should I keep trying my luck at the human condition?
I'm struggling to believe the human condition is for all of us;
Because of the way we humans are hardwired to think and judge,
and as a result, the way we have constructed meanings and standards in our societies,
many of us are left with an appalling serving of the human condition,
with little other than pain, misery, and humiliation on our plates
So what do you say?
Should I abandon the human condition and maybe seek more transcendental avenues of living?
(it's not as exciting as it sounds because I'm compelled to consider it)
Or, do you think the human condition can still accommodate for the joys of every one of us?
In this world,
there are some of us who get left behind
because we don’t fit the bill.
A bill that is arbitrarily in place and which
makes some magnificent, many perfectly normal,
and some of us a bunch of unworthy f*s who don’t
deserve affection, attention, and any of your time.
Go on, erase us from your narrative, from this world’s narrative,
erase us completely because our bodies are a certain way,
because it would require you to change your perspective slightly
to accommodate us into your view,
because there’s a billion to choose from who are perfectly normal
We might as well be not human because some of us don’t get to
experience human joys strictly because of how we look.
The least you could do is understand very clearly this fact
that for whatever reason, not all of us are able to experience being a human in the sense that most of you are able to
I've been struggling for years with my body image related trauma. This was just a quick rant to ease the tension I had been feeling before I put the words down.
Hair stands upon jolted skin folds.
You never could eat a salad.
You look pregnant with a fat pig!
Large enough to eclipse the sun!
Large enough to cause nuclear winter for everyone!
Grass ceases to grow with every step that you take!
The earth weighs a percent more whenever you ingest!
Your rolls could warm the Eskimos!
An orchestra of clapping flesh fills the room with every movement you make!
You don't seem to care about the people you run over when rolling in the street.
You say it is their fault for getting in the way.
They all look like Indiana Jones trying to outrun a boulder.
Too many happy meals can make a lot of people unhappy.
Man sized pancakes dot the side walks that we all used to tread.
Skinny people no longer exist, they are all dead. You mistook them for French fries.
You are just as imperfect as me,
So who are you to point a chunky finger.
You think you are so big behind that screen. Lecturing me about body standards when you look like you washed up on the beach this morning.
Stop crushing your high horse and come down just a little bit.
Time for you to get a serving of your own medicine.
Gape those ears wide and give a listen:
I don't live to look good for some fat ***, greasy, disgusting pig on the internet, jerking off to ******* **** while his mother makes microwave pizzas upstairs!
So jam that finger up you ***!