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Sara Barrett Nov 2024
Growing up as a girl, I watched and learned,
The truths of boys and men often go unturned.
“Boys will be boys,” a phrase we all know,
Implying that girls must shoulder the load.
This notion suggests that girls mature fast,
Leading to women who pick up the cast—
An unspoken burden, a silent decree,
To bear the weight of their irresponsibility.
In a world steeped in misogyny’s grasp,
Women face judgment; their futures unclasped.
Absorbing the shame of the games that they play,
While men to walk away, free to go on their way.
Many men abandon homes they once called their own,
Now seen as free, yet their true selves unknown.
Disgrace drapes over women like a heavy yoke—
A weight of neglect that shatters their hope.
This yoke is forged from promises unkept,
From fathers who vanish while their children wept.
He escapes guilt with practiced ease,
Dodging duty like a ghost on the breeze,
Claiming children and a wife he never knew,
While society laughs at the pain he withdrew.
Leaving his children to carry his woes—
Their identities shaped by the hurt that he chose.
His children learn quickly to shoulder the shame;
They remember who was the burden of blame—
Like he who claimed love but was never there.
Those left to carry his name feel the strain,
Learning of unfairness that echoes their pain.
Abandoned women and children continue to grow—
A daunting endeavor men wish to overthrow.
Yet shadows may linger, and burdens remain;
They’ll carve out a future where hope will maintain.
For every struggle faced will lead to the dawn—
A testament to strength as they carry on.
The poem “Left To Carry His Name” delves into the profound burdens that women and children endure as a result of men’s irresponsibility. This poem critiques the societal norms that enable men to escape accountability while women are left to shoulder the emotional and social consequences of abandonment. Through vivid imagery, it conveys the shame and struggle experienced by those who are left behind, underscoring their resilience as they strive for a brighter future. As the second piece in a series focused on gender roles and family dynamics, this work invites readers to reflect on how we can confront and change these deeply ingrained societal expectations.
Sara Barrett Nov 2024
In a society,
There’s a tree called misogyny,
Where its deep roots
Grow into all girls,
Who develop in agony,
Facing judgment that feels relentless,
Much of it unspoken, a harsh irony.
This judgment seeps into our daily strife,
Trapping us within roles that limit our life.
Narrow expectations stifle our dreams,
While society’s pressure bursts at the seams.
We’re told how to act, what to say and wear,
As if our true selves are too much to bear.
Dreams of freedom fuel our inner symphony,
A quest to end this cycle of regulatory authority.
She bears the weight of expectations,
A load shaped by herstory’s complications.
With a heavy heart, she watched the tragedy,
As blame is passed down through each family.
Inheriting struggles, a cycle we see,
Each woman’s journey marked by disparity.
Disappointments linger, like shadows they stay,
A legacy of women woven in silence and gray.
The silence among women she cherished felt heavy,
An unspoken vow that let men be merry
Free from their own responsibility,
Caught in a system that kept them confined,
With “They didn’t know better” echoing in mind.
Hiding complicity in voices suppressed,
In a world where their wisdom was rarely expressed.
Each story unspoken, a weight they all share,
Navigating life with caution and care.
Yet deep in their hearts lies a yearning to be,
More than the shadows of what they could see.
In the silence, a strength that quietly grows,
A call for the change that each woman knows.
This poem, ‘Roots of Misogyny,’ explores the deep-seated nature of misogyny and its impact on women’s lives across generations. Inspired by the stories of women in my life, it reflects on societal expectations and the silent strength that grows within. As the first piece in a series examining gender roles and family dynamics, I hope it prompts reflection on how we can challenge and change these ingrained societal norms.
Matthew Nov 2024
I'm done with the rain
it keeps whispering her name
every thumpy splash breaking
beading down this window,
I'm drenched in her fain
like the wind cries and the birds sing
as does the whizzing hum of a bee wing
muffs the mist off the white flowery vine
brings me around into the fruit of her smile
one of so many wordful days I felt as hers
nuzzled to her pink fuzzy sweater
the way her fluffy socks rubbed up my legs
as our eyes stare with pebble ripples
my nights a sweltering hell in this drought of her
MuseumofMax Nov 2024
You would not even exist without women

How dare you try to claim them

How dare you try to own their bodies
To control their wombs

How dare you disrespect the mother that gave you life

How dare you hate us when we created you
Claire Kowal Nov 2024
If the day ends and I no longer have the rights to myself,
Is it truly the land of the free?
Or is it only free to the straight white men that loom in offices and make laws on matters that don’t relate to them.
If I wake up tomorrow and see I can’t love who I love,
Is it really what Jesus said when he said love thy neighbor?
Or is thy neighbor only supposed to be a straight white Christian man?
A man who claims to live by a book written by other men like him,
Claiming stories of a man who loves everyone,
Of a man who said everyone must love equally
But why do these men not follow the simple rule from the book they revolve their lives around?
Is it that hard to love each other?
To love me?
A pained fifteen-year-old girl who wants to love someone and be loved,
Yet the rights of being a girl and the rights of love are ripped out of my torn and blistered hands and handed to the boy next to me who already has his own rights of living.
Is my life worth less than the next person because I might not marry a man?
That I might need to save my life by having an abortion after I’m ***** by the same men who claim they know me and my body?
At least my struggles aren’t as intense as my friends,
But is that a good thing?
No.
My rights might become limited,
But theirs might be truly gone
If the sun breaks the horizon and I lose everyone and everything I’ve ever known,
Will my home of the brave no longer be a home to those who fall into the categories of failure?
The work I’ve created, we’ve created, might be destroyed once the ticks of the tallies grow.
this is referencing the us election
Frederick Blaise Nov 2024
My buddies shared stories

When they wanted protection

But the ******* fanatics’

Decisions were static


Used all possible ploys

To manipulate guys

Into blowing their loads

In their pink little holes


These girls might be crazy

They may well be *****

For all we know

They might want a baby


Regardless of risk

My guys fell for their tricks

When one ruse failed

The girls went down their list


They said not to worry

*** and ***** are clean

When they ****** the next day

It burned like lit gasoline


They turned up the heat

Seduction was key

Till all they could think

Was with the head between their legs


It won’t feel as good

Sensitivity reduced

You won’t stay hard

And I won’t stay wet and squirt jets


You should accept my request

I thought we were cool

If you just trusted me…

Be carefree like a hippie baby!


Emotional blackmail

I’ll get mad if you insist

To protect your *****

Resistance is futile *****


They said if we must

Let ME wrap it up

I’ll secretly poke holes

Or slip off before you explode


She’ll have no *** at all

Or she’ll force you down

And stay on top

Making you drop the ****** to the ground


She says she’s on the pill

When she’s definitely not

Even if you pull out

There’s still ***** in your pre-***, no doubt


Either she’ll give you disease

Or steal your seed for a baby

None of that is love

So wear a glove bubba


At the end of the story

They said don’t stick your **** in crazy

She might get too attached

You’ll wake up with your **** and ***** detached
fish-sama Nov 2024
imperfect
she's witty
womanly
i love
milady
your calloused fingers, a heart you're
patient    chivalrous, gallant, bold,    alluring
leading        ****** soldier stands     ambitions
critical        honest and cold       amazing
thinking   her dreams     always
smart,   dauntless,  aiming
my dearest with  
shotguns as arms.
Responsible     shoulders
my lady           my honey
charming             handsome
black                           -eyed
black                              -faced
        bea                               uty          
you                           are,  
our                           war
rior,                        rugged
indest                       ructable
gunslinger                   please call her

                                                                                                         milady.
the strongest people I've met are women.
should I make a poem for men?
I don't think any gender is superior
TorturedPoet Oct 2024
pay more respect to the women working at morgues.

they tend to the dead
it takes sympathy
it takes care
it takes courage
it takes control

not the control of fear of stray souls
not the control of fear of phantoms
but the control of wanton

and that is why men aren't hired by morgues.
My first poem here... :)
This is actually inspired by someone on the net saying that some morgues in their city did not hire men due to....yk
julia Oct 2024
healing hands
careful heart
but at what cost?
any nurses out there? this last semester of nursing school is rough.
GODNYX Oct 2024
Degrading myself for entertainment bring's me joy
Talking down to myself bring's me pleasure
Which i never had with any women
My friend said women are something to mess with
I don't know if that's true
But my land lady, she is a beauty who came straight from heaven

I want to ravish her
I want to degrade her
To drag her by legs into my world
But that feels like a crime
I am a criminal
Punish me
I am a sinner
With a mind gone rouge
I cannot think straight i am sick with vulgarity
My hands feel empty Is that why she doesn't **** with me?
But can with my friend
Who is a dog walking around streets for food?

Maybe she muses animals
I know she has a loose ****
I should focus my mind somewhere more productive
Where i can do something
Where my mind can stop wandering in the day light
But the dawn light
Isn't that inviting criminals?
To ravish women like slaves
I am sorry. i don't know why wrote something like this but i feel like a dog. i shouldn't be alive. i am sorry if anyone felt offended
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