just decades ago, in far off world
in big white house, sat a little girl.
she lay in the corner of her room without a care
because this little girl had dreams to spare.
she laid on her bed, with her nose in a book
she had thousands of adventures in that little nook.
until one day, an arrow shot her right off of her cloud
she had to learn to grow up, and fit in with the crowd.
she traded her books for lipstick and blush.
she took out her ponytail and got a new brush.
she had to learn to be pretty, it's not about brains.
if you want to be heard, you'd better be vain.
if you don't look perfect, than no one cares about you,
if you're not pretty, then you won't make it through.
so take off your glasses, and drop all of your classes;
men don't care about brains, they care about *****.
you're meant to be a housewife, what else is there to do?
get with the program, why mess with their view?

but the girl wasn't done, she wasn't going without fight
though the world had hit her, she still had some bite.
why can't you both pretty and smart,
still be kind, and speak from the heart?
but the world said "no!"; and it's hard to rebel
when the world is trying to silence all of your yells.
but she kept on marching, she was determined to win
with a smirk on her face, she was ready for it begin.
armed with a dress and a large stack of books
she spread the word that it wasn't all about looks.

the world called her bitter and ****** and mean
apparently "feminist" is the worst thing you can be.
she stood up to them, and challenged their norms.
she told all the girls, they didn't have to conform.
she told them they could be what ever they wanted
but she knew that the girls would still be haunted
by the judgmental world she knew too well
could they make a change? only time would tell

though she tried her hardest to win the battle
there are still times when women are treated like cattle.
and we're still not equal, not in work, not in pay
i just keep praying that it'll get better someday.
but praying won't help, if we don't do our part
we've got to keep fighting, we've got be smart.
we can't let these men keep making the laws
we've got to start a revolution, and be true to the cause.

but still it's so hard, and i'm just so tired
when will women start to be admired?
and i am too young to feel this ******
but women's rights have been put on a waiting list.
there's so many things that i'm fighting to change
but the harder i fight, the more people find me strange.
but why is it strange to want equal rights?
i want to save myself, i don't need a white knight.

there's so much to do, we've got so far to go
and there's so many things that i just don't know.
but listen, little girl, don't you fret
because i promise you, our story isn't over yet.

i used to hate sundays,
but sometimes you hold
my hands in the pews
at church and i think that
i've been saved in more
ways than one

It was then I had realized
why people listened to sad songs
stayed up all night waiting for late replies
they would get insecure when they see their person with another
how their world would stop when they see them
would get the butterflies whenever their lips touched
their day incomplete when they don't see each other
couldn't sleep when a big argument comes up
but become lovers again the very next day
how down they would be if they can't cheer them up
get all giddy when they hold hands
smiling like a fool when a thought of them comes up
how their life is complete when they are together
it was then I noticed
this silly and delirious emotions
are the great effect of loving someone

i started popping pills when i was twelve and
pretended they would save me until i couldn't
feel them anymore, and i'm scared that i'll only ever
love you like that, because i'm beginning to feel
numb when you're around, but i get headaches
when you're gone. &when; the time comes that you
have to leave, i want to be able to let you go gracefully

(i'll spend the next three months whispering your name,
trying to remember what it felt like to want to say it instead of
to need to)

.
i am so tired of my bones being
romanticized; being made of
stardust does not make me infinite or
beautiful.

i wish you would try just one last
time to reach out, so that i could be
the one to walk away

(i'm so ******* proud of myself
for not loving you anymore)

She came into this world
By accident.
Never planned,
But her parents
Didn’t regret a thing.

She grew up with
Her hands stretched out,
Hungry for knowledge
And taking in
Everything she
Could reach.

She was only 9 years old,
When she saw both her parents
Screaming at each other.
She didn’t understand,
“Why are mummy and
Daddy fighting?”
She asked as tears
Started to fall from
Her eyes to her
Delicate skin.
Her parents sighed as
They knew it wasn’t
Working out.
Things were crashing down.

She was only 10 years old
When her daddy left her.
As he carried his bags
Out the door,
She cried,
“Where are you going, daddy?”
He left, without a word.

She grew up,
Without love.
She grew up,
Believing  that
Love is the problem.

She never trusted love.
She never wanted love.
She never needed love.

She was only 13
When she took
Her first puff
Of cigarette.
She was hoping
That her misery
Would fade away,
Just like the smoke.

She was only 15
When she was suicidal.
Nobody knew about
Her struggles.
Nobody knew
She cried herself
To sleep, wishing everything
Was different and simple.
Her wrist was like
Her own canvas,
Covered with scars,
New and old.

She was drowning,
In her miseries.
All she wanted
Was someone to save her,
Or least teach her
How to swim,
But no one did.

She was drowning,
As she watched
People around her
Minding their own lives.

Till this day,
She’s still
Drowning,
Still
Struggling.

And no one
Cares enough
To save her.

Fell for you, died on impact.

All defined, labeled, identified.
like quiet children who stand aside,
                                                    Silent as a dusty book,
Captivated by their own shoes,
must be pardoned, must be excused.
Those who mumble and avoid your eyes,
they do not mind, they’re just shy.

Imagine if everything still and reserved
Were undermined by such a word.
What would we say of those calm characters
mountains, towers, poetry, flowers?
If perchance one afternoon we met the horizon or the moon,
Are we to say that because often they stand away,
Afar in photos, landscapes, scenery,
off center, silent, beyond the sea,
That these defining features of the sky
Should be cast off and labeled shy?

Those amongst us, who silently
Live largely in their reverie,
Hiding behind their books and journals,
Heard not, but for the scratch of their pencils,
Will name you someday;
They'll have something undeniably brilliant to say.
Should you disagree, consider and think,
Violent, boisterous thunder is the voice of silent-seeming lightning.