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Ash Oct 5
Cinderella did not teach me stand up against the wrong.
She did not teach me to be strong.
Katniss Everdeen did.
Aurora did not teach me that I don't need a man.
She did not teach me I am independent just as I am.
Cleopatra did.
Snow white did not teach me that real beauty has nothing to do with physical appearance.
She didn't teach me self love or acceptance.
Winnie Harlow did.
Ariel did not teach me to resist and fight.
She didn't teach me to raise my voice for what is right.
Malala did.
Ashley Graham gave me confidence.
Michelle Obama gave me inspiration.
Tris Prior taught me sacrifice.
Hermoine Granger showed me it's not only boys who can fight.
Nikita Gill taught me I am enough even without a man.
Joan of Arc showed me I can do anything he can.

Let's read to our girls stories of such badass, incredible, fierce and confident women.
Instead of stories where they are painted weak and can't do without men.
Let us teach them that they are powerful, they are strong.
And anyone who tells them different is wrong.
Let's read them stories of brave, heroic women instead of ones where they are shown weak and helpless.
Let's teach them to be warriors and not some princess.
Dedicated and inspired by all the strong, independent, fierce women out there! But mostly inspired by Nikita Gill's 'Fierce Fairytales'.
Trout Aug 31
Under the pins carnations are *******, throwing the garbage
Masking eulogies with a kite
Thrashing the carnage with a machete, grabbing the youthful
Putting firelight to the sky
Nicaragua counter the prophets
And a phantom see such a muppet
Can you understand where I come from
Where I come from, where I come from?
Selling laughter at the stadium
With a poster for mausoleum
Gotta get down to craze a glue gun
Punking new sons, in the blue sun
Eloisa Aug 8
Your flaws and scars are part of what makes
a stronger you
Be proud to wear all of them.
They are a reminder of the battles you’ve won and the trials you’ve endured.
No struggles and accomplishments define
who you are.
Be proud to carry your wounds
and your stories.
You’re not broken.
You are more.
You’re a warrior.
Chris Jun 30
Sign me up
Send me in
Equip me
With a pen.

Hold it tight
Aim it right
Take your pick
Feel the kick

Peaceful notes
Left behind
Makes you want
To rewind
I'm joining the military soon. I'm not necessarily anti-war, nor pro-war, but this just came to me. Enjoy.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 25
“I am a warrior, so that my son may be a merchant, so that his son may be a poet.”

John Quincy Adams, 6th President of the United States
a bad weakness, mine, mess with the perfect of others,
unsure what to add that will addictive illuminate further,
but as homage, a tribute, a salute
got to
got too,
no middle class delayed gratification for me, none, whatsoever,
read the words and my own hands choke me
as if to pull out, to free
the upsurging words in my chest-forming,
to uplift me up, from the floor where I am roiling in
wonderful wonderment at a prophecy come true

my recent family history,
about 400 years worth, got it written down someplace,
escapees from a Spanish Inquisition,
a Roman one before that,
meandering Jews who found a respite, a small welcome
in a small village in Germany

(the irony does not go unnoticed)

from villager to merchant, from tiny town to big city folk,
we went, warriors if any, kept secret, best unheard,
attract no attention, but do what survival doesn’t
always politely request

here I am child of the proverbial wandering jew,
fancy me a poet with, at best, a very small p,
one of three children, historians, book writers, scholars and even
and so a President’s words, hammer my cells
upon an anvil for human skins,
the future shape of me foreseen
and I think to myself,
alone and out loud:

This, This!

is what makes America great, 
welcoming the stranger,
even predicting their
possible pathway to a peaceful existence,
giving their descendant’s generations liberty,
liberty to become poets,
free, who can stand upright
Will Riggs Jun 17
Purple veins strain against the skin.
Pale, translucent, paper thin.
Skinny fingers clawed in monstrous shapes,
Brown spots from years she could never erase.

Now wrinkled and weak, fragile and sore,
So many things she couldn’t do any more.
Some days she feels she’s been betrayed,
By the cruelty of her advancing age.

She rubs her hands to ease the ache,
And recalls the life they helped her make.
She looks at them and feels the loss,
Living a life bares a high cost.

These hands that held her children near,
That gently dried their salty tears.
Hands that held her husband tight.
The hands that never gave up the fight.

Miraculous hands that protected and soothed.
Hands that conveyed her every mood.
Hands so strong they could carry the weight,
That would never give up and never forsake.

The hands that took little but always gave,
Hands that applauded every achievement made.
Those soft, sweet hands that gently cared,
For those sick or lost in dark despair.

Hands that fussed and fumbled that day
Her husband gave their daughter away.
Those hands holding tight, as he slowly died,
Caressing his brow as she stood by his side.

Hands that rocked her grandson to sleep,
That gladly took over when others grew weak.
Hands that once held everyone she loved,
And praying for strength to our God above.

Hands that were always so willing to give,
Hands that reveal a life fully lived.
Small, feeble hands, now empty and cold,
These hands that each day will keep growing old.

These hands she now tends to hide away,
These hands that at times make her feel ashamed.
Grotesque and useless in her eyes,
They rest in her lap as she quietly cries.

But I see the hands of a hero so true,
A woman that survived what this life put her through.
A woman whose heart still shimmers like gold,
With the hands of a warrior that made her mark on this world.
ellie Jun 16
i placed my head against your chest
and my ears were filled with battle cries
your heartbeat pounding like war drums in the night
i've heard stories about the armageddon in your head
you furrow your brows and clench your fist in your sleep
your pointer finger twitches with anticipation when the room is too quiet
i can only assume it’s muscle memory now
a war has been waging in your body since the day you were born
a war has been waged on your body since the day you were born
you didn’t ask for this
who would ever ask for this?
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