They call me.

Waving to me from the up-turned leaves
On the trees lining the street
Before a storm settles in.

They call me.

Humming softly after sunset,
Ushering in the blue of dusk.

They call me.

Whispering along the howling wind
That rustles the grass and bangs the shutters.

They call me.

Coming down on me like a firing squad
The rain pummeling into my back
As I desperately try to remember.
As I desperately try to forget.

They call me.

You were the one who warned us.
You were the one who taught us.
We were shown everything.
Told everything.
How to protect ourselves.
How to fight back.
What your weaknesses were,
Because you thought they were ours too.

You were wrong.

They call me.

You didn't realize who we were.
You didn't know what we were,
Or why.

We never meant any harm.
We didn't choose this.
We never got a choice.

To us, choice is nothing but a fairytale
That we've become too old to believe in.

They call me.

The songs of the Old Religion
Rumble towards me
Within the fog.

**"We are the granddaughters  of the witches you weren't able to burn."

Why do I have so much pent up worry
When I know,
I KNOW the universe looks out for me

The **** that I have done
(Mostly while I was spun)
Could've got me locked up
Knocked up
Or dead

Gotta learn how
To stay outta my head

Daddy told me when I was young
He had cast a spell on anyone
Who would ever try to hurt me

But how does it work
When I'm the inflicter
My self says to me
Go on, *** her

I tried to be a witch tonight,
followed the the moon's seductive rays.
How frightened was I-- the terror!
To see such light, not in day.

She howled like a wolverine,
coming up from the mountain.
She hushed away the good, the angel,
and there was space
for dark to prey.

These times, I see,
the feminist inferno--
She sings, "I feel the blame."
When men on Earth shun out her sorrow
She clings, and prays, and calls my name.

I stare at you all day, rosemary,
only at you.

Though all day, rosemary,
you never look back at me.

Not a single glance, rosemary,
i never meet your eyes.

I could imagine their colour, rosemary,
a satin soft blue.

You run your hand through your hair, rosemary,
like your fingers touch pure gold.

What does it feel like, rosemary?
to be what everyone wished they had?

I wish i had you, rosemary,
to feel okay again.

You could save me, rosemary.
if you just look back.

It was Tuesday morning
When a single glance to your eyes
Made my face turned into maroon
I heard my blood pulsing in my veins
A burst of energy inside of me was increasing
I was compelled at that moment
Then catched myself staring
You bewitched all of me so effortlessly
And with a single snap on your fingers
You stole everything to me

It’s no longer burn the witch
it’s drown the ******
purity only attainable when it’s served
as a death dessert, martyr Mary
do you understand TV dinners
made the housewife go extinct
or berserk, I think that’s how it goes
catching their heads in ovens as protest
but listening came in through the door
as a catcall, festering on ottoman chairs
smoking that new cigarette with a cautionary
tale at bedtime
the ends  being ground, like the beef
that we’re all guilty of starting between
sighs, or the coffee beans blistered
trying to come up with an excuse as to why
high heels won’t break that man’s spine,
and it won’t in that new suit he’s so possessive of
because he paid for it with the sweat of his back
as the gaggle of his fellow businessmen
scuffle over who gets to lick the perspiration
that earned him that respect, that bought
the privilege of feeling like a man that stands out
from the wolves in offices, waiting at midnight
for the froth to begin to foam and to
claw at reasons why the bed is always empty
when he’s everything everyone wants to be
and I think you begin to sympathize,
I think you begin to understand why
balancing a ballpoint pen between your
forefinger and thumb is equally as
drinking the cup half full
the modern man with his chiseled teeth
and overt way of speaking throws
up at the American Dream, standing
naked in the glory of publicity fame
there’s too much lights, the makeup
is too intense
the crown of jezebels
Belongs to the hardworking man
with the unkempt lawn, and the
natural features of a god
it’s no longer burn the witch
it’s freeze the *****
while they stand flirting
with the boondocks trapping
fireflies and weak Christians
in their hair
and will you listen to me now?
as the hordes of provoked
believers stand in crowded
bars and in your own home
******* themselves mentally
as they chew and spit
into each other’s mouth
what they’ve always wanted to hear
and the pleasure comes from
not knowing and not wanting to know
and will you touch me now?
that the fantasy is created in your own image
and will you worship me now?
that I agree with these shackles
telling me that they were always meant to be there
that ******* is next to holiness
and will you accept me now?
that the book has been rewritten
and the villain is not you nor me
but the refrigerator with the lizard
that tempted humankind and
banished them from ever entering paradise again
and will you **** me now?
that comedy is only worth in whoever
has the longest tongue