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Learn to say No
Don’t give an explanation.
They don’t deserve one.
Stop saying it’s okay when it isn’t.

If they grab your arm, push them away, kick their shins.
If they get angry and yell at you, yell louder.
You are a powerful Woman,
You don’t deserve to be trampled on.

Use your Voice!
You have the force of a Typhoon in your voice.
Drown out the misogyny and wash them out of your life.
Tell them that the answer is NO.
Don't forget to purchase your very own copy of my book, "Digging Graves in Flower Beds," by Alexandria Grigsby on Amazon
Link in Bio!
Autmn T Dec 2019
If I'm to feel the shake of your winds gather the leaves from the trees will the rain fall down brushing my skin gently. Will the cleanse chill my skin, cause me to shiver or recoil? Will it touch my heart and cause a typhoon like the tears over missing you, its been years since I last knew what to do.
Yani Oct 2018
The night was freezing,
trees furiously swaying;
I screamed, I called.
Your name echoed, resonated.

Without any answer,
I waited, have you gone away?
Shared memories, have you buried them?
Tell me, "I am here."

I heard you
but you did not call;
upon seeing you, I hugged you
like you've been away for so long...

And for so long you'll be away.
Holding your hands, I felt it.
It's like you've gone to another world;
stricken, my heart felt numb.

For you are so cold
and into the cold ground
I cried, I'd save you
if I could.
Danilo Florenzio Jul 2018
The red moon
Red as the blood that fills our hearts
Red as the passion that give us fire
As the seduction that leave us flying

It is in bloom
As the good feelings that we transpire
As all the passion that inspires us
As all the loveliness we admire

As a typhoon
Like the pleasure that makes we go wild
Like that moon of love up in the sky
Like all the bloom of all our desire
Like that typhoon of love intensified
Another wonder in that wonderful sky.
gets trapped
under the leaves
of trees
after the rain.
It gave me
the impression
that the shadows
of those leaves
are glowing.
Up the sky,
I can see
the sun,
but it doesn't
my eyes.
The chilling wind
carried the scent
of the muddy soil
beneath my feet.
It reminded me
of all the devastation
brought upon
by the storm.
Last night
it rained.
05 August 2015

© Khayri R.R. Woulfe. All rights reserved.
Tamera Pierce Apr 2016
Every sunrise brings a wave of hurt to wash over me like a typhoon.
Every sunset brings my regrets to come rest like bricks on my shoulders.
Threatening to snap  my spine in two.

Every doubt comes and shackles to my ankles.
I let the metallic taste melt into my blood stream and become part of me.

Every noise shatters my ear drums and sends shocks through my body.
They leave burns streaked across my body like tattoos.
Tattoos that won't wash off in the sink.
They won't fade with time.
Tattoos that remind me who I am.
...Or used to be.

Every blade of grass cuts my feet like words cut my back as you stuck each one in with precision.

Every car drives away with my hopes and dreams buckled in the back seat listening to the radio.
Singing every word like they can't hear me crying for them to return.

Every cloud rains on my mind like acid that pours from the bottle into his glass.
Like hatred onto the plate that she sniffs.

Every warmth I feel drowns in my sorrows like I drown in the typhoon that lays at my feet.
I will always have my tattoos.
a memory of myself.
...or used to be.
Pauline Morris Apr 2016
There's a typhoon a monsoon
Of catastrophic misery, agony, and doom
The pain keeps raining down
In my sorrow I will surely drown
An ocean of emotion and I can't swim
My soul's light is growing dim
The sky just keeps bleeding
My tolerance it's exceeding
In this inky blackness I am sinking
My soul keeps on shrinking
From this psychalgia there is no exception
There is no redemption
In this anguish
Is where I'll languish
In this tribulation I will suffer
There is no hope I will ever recover
In this desolation I will moan and wail
This despair is my last coffin nail
drowned the Earth suddenly.

  underneath honest light,
   submerged. this cataract of feeling —
waters pursue beginnings. cradling them
to unknown ends, washed by the shore.
        gluttonously the night swallowed
all — parliament of birds warble no longer.
             midnight, the   Moon
claws the supple skin of organized stone
               where all the edges bloom
forth torrid froth of dappled light which kills no less than a brief life of matchflame. tenuous spar of wind on
the unserious twilight; bulge of death
in the stream — a body haul, rafting
  in compost; stench of all topple like
resins held loose in vats. rat **** becomes
           as inviting as moulding bread;
tantric music for no instrument, hoarse
cries unbeheld —

            until the flesh no longer flounders
pressed against sleep-shaped youngness
hewn lissome in the hours of no succor,

       modeling silence in the thrill of
this enthusiastic space,
           hands scouring muddied
  obscure, atremble,
      shadowless hours fill stomachs with
the plump word of rescue yet none
  of these fingers unwished the
ingenuity of dull gods — this twilight
  nor twinight could ever grive
in forethought, striking bells to signal birds
         to arrive again so we could feast
in  silver  fish, with bare hands scaled to callouses,
      looking at it twice-over, this battered yolk
of whiteness, with deeds of the viridian
   now atrill in new fragile woodworks

       lurching and
         ameliorating as we all
    stutter and sing
       haunts dabbing open
  lips of small wounds that
   wish to shut quietly,   almost
every threat of gray     or pummel of
   wind startles the flyblown ornate,
   hurrying us back to cornerless homes
where all photographs washed away,
    very few hang
               swayed by verdure
  of the gradual throne of sea
        curving perpetually the several stars
we have ignored for a while,
     where everything quite begins
    again to enthrall with a melodic
  leitmotif of the most tender of
       instances loose
            in mouths
                 and in endless recall
For Tacloban, the derelict of Typhoon Yolanda.

2 years ago, typhoon Haiyan pummeled and ravished the Philippines, leaving Tacloban in complete disarray.
jennee Oct 2015
The wind howls to the craters of the moon, wondering if its lack of breath is another respiratory disease waiting to happen
As bodies crash into the ocean and casualties increase by every bottled up sensibility
The cracks of cardboard doors fill up the voids of emptiness,
Emptiness of washed up filth and five days worth of street toxic meant for the guts too vacant to feel
Their doors quiver to every knock and exhale, families too hungry, awaiting to devour assurance of safety
Just this once, they are asking for a little more
Than numbered days of handfuls of rice and rock salt, enough to feed the mouths of eight
Teeth clicking to every bite, bones clashing together to prolong the food not more than a mouthful
However this time the clicking doesn’t stop
It intensifies as street light poles plummet into windows and shards are washed away, seeping through soaked doors
They are told to leave these places without titles but this unnamed land is their entitlement and home
Their mother whose tongue is a symphony of lullabies remains silent, hoping for the storm to pass
Lips swollen from biting, she looks at her children with fear in her eyes, tears reflecting the shattered bulb that hangs by the kitchen ceiling
She links her arms to her children’s, grips their skin tightly hoping to warm their shivering exterior while whispering the words “they’ll come for us”

Time elapses and the water rises, their properties enveloped by the disease
Their house disappears along with it, in a downward current of pitch black and rotten forestry
What is left is a family of seven, arms linked and accompanied by the howling wind,
Slowly diminishing with its lack of breath, becoming a nationwide debris

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