They laugh at us. We see that.
They mock us. We see that.
They stare at us. we see that.
They film us. And surprise, surprise: we see that.
We’re angry and they see it.
But what is it that we’re trying to convey?
Why we’re finally ready to admit that we don’t want to submit.

We are finally walking through the bridge that is leading us to equality.
We’re just asking for less hostility.
And no, equality does not mean that you can hit us too.
Don’t you think that maybe there’s something wrong with that? With you?
We’re not asking you to stop holding doors for us,
We’re not asking you to stop being a ‘gentleman’ -
We’re not trying to make a big fuss.

We just want you to be aware of the injustice.
So, stop thinking that my friend’s fate is to become a receptionist - is that justice?
But maybe I’m wrong, nay, we’re wrong. We?
The babies, the boys, the girls, the men, the women, the society - are we free?
It’s all just arbitrary, isn’t it?
This is some crazy moral relativity conundrum, so why is it that we’re tiring to fight for this thing called equality?
Well, anyways, we’re finally ready to admit that we’re fed up of having to submit.

This is not how a story starts.
This is not how a story ends.
This is, though, how my story starts.
Yet this is also how my story ends.
Makes sense?
‘What?’
Is what you thought?
Great.
Let’s start.

You come and go,
You let your hair grow.
You talk and snitch,
You are a real *****.

But who am I to judge you?
For I am an outsider,
A ****** -
As you like to call me.

But I don't don't care
For I think I am smart,
An intellectual -
As I call myself.


Cuz only what I think of myself is iMpOrTaNt....

I listen to it
and in love I fall.
The White, The Blue, The Purple,
The crazy person in my head
Listens to it nonstop
Whilst I get a frecking heart attack.

Whilst this deals with epiphenomenalism,
I try to figure out what I am
And where I came from.
But I figured I CAN'T,
AND why? 'HeRe'S why:
PoEtRy'.

Love your
Poems,
Want to meet YOU,
Dear Duffy.

A brat - I didn’t anticipate that.
Saving her from all the crimson lice
As Pushkin pounces from my mouth. And she is leaving me for what?
A fairly nice dice, I am. Here’s an advice:

If you knowingly slide to a wolf’s face,
Where deceiving him is the first book on your shelf
Don’t you think he will bouncingly yearn for your grace,
For will he only want you for your lascivious and animalistic self.