"baggy" poems
We live in a world filled with stereotypes.
Stereotypes that make us ashamed of who we are.
There’s a woman in my neighborhood who wears tight clothing and high heel shoes but that doesn’t mean she’s a ******
There’s a boy in my class who listens to rap music and wears baggy clothes, but that doesn’t mean he’s out on the street selling dope.
There’s a girl in my class who rarely says to words and get’s straight A’s, but that doesn’t mean she’s a goody goody.
People ask us all the time of who we think we are,
but it doesn’t matter to them because before we can even digest the question and regurgitate the answer they have already made their mind up of who they think we are.
Some people are considered a brain.
Some a trouble maker
or a ****
A princess
or a ******
But the truth is we are all smart, just in different ways.
Everyone of us has some athleticism in us.
Everyone one has gotten into some trouble.
We have all had are princess or prince moments.
And everyone of us is weird,
some people are just better at hiding in it.
You remember my neighbor I told you about?
She dresses like that, not because she is trying to sell herself
but because when she was younger she got bullied and no one ever noticed her because she never had designer clothes because her mother had no job and her father left when she was 4. And ever since then she made herself a promise that she would make sure people noticed her.
And that boy with the baggy clothes?
He wears those baggy clothes to cover up the cuts and bruises his father comes home from the and had one to many drinks.
And the girl who get’s straight A’s and doesn’t say much?
She get’s those straight A’s because if she doesn’t she gets a straight hand across the face and she doesn’t talk because she has sever anxiety.
So the next time you point and laugh at someone remember that they’re 3 fingers pointing back at you.
And the next time you assume something about something remember that when yo assume yo make an *** out of U and ME.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
Fat fat but nobody knows
Fat fat it doesn't really show
Fat fat like nobody cares
Fat fat baggy clothes she wears
Fat fat but she's always cold
Fat fat her excuses are old
Fat fat she starts to cry
Fat fat her monstrous thighs
Fat fat say something nice
Fat fat give some advice
Fat fat just be kind
Fat fat change her mind
Fat fat?
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 9:36 PM UTC
I was on my way to a party
Dressed in heels and a crop top
When I entered the corner store
To purchase some snacks
And on my way to the cashier
A man standing in an aisle
Browsing through peanuts
Glanced up and stopped mid-search
When I clicked past him
And proceeded to uncomfortably stare
I walked into the gas station
Wearing dark wash jeans and a v-neck
With my best friend at 2 AM
When two drunken men stumbled in
And began eyeing us up and smirking
My friend leaned in to me and whispered,
"I'm really scared."
Overhearing her, one man elbowed the other
And with a smile on his face taunted,
"Oh no, we're scaring them."
I was at the laundry mat one night
Wearing shorts and a baggy shirt
When a middle aged man across the room
Kept gawking at me from over the washers
Uneasy, I went outside to smoke
To which he stood at the window
And kept a close eye on me
I called a friend and stayed on the phone
Because I was afraid to go back
And get my clothes alone
I stepped out of my vehicle
In my sweatpants and flipflops
To grab some cigarettes quick
When a white bearded man
Was already at my heels
"Hey, how're you honey?"
I quickly replied, "fine".
And hurried into the store
Without looking back
It seems like every time I leave the house
It doesn't matter what I'm wearing
It could be "provocative" or a burlap sack
I always end up feeling threatened
Heartbeat in my ears
Cold sweat on my back
So don't blame it on my outfit
Don't blame it on my actions
Because I'm not asking for it
I just want to be left alone
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
To be a girl it means that you are frail, right?
That can’t possibly understand a thing
To be a girl it means you stay up day and night
Trying to get that big, shiny ring
But that’s not true, for a majority that is
We have a secret passed down from mother to daughter
The secret is that we pretend to be his
But our hearts belong to one and another
At age 6 being a girl meant you liked pink and played with dolls
But that changed
At age 8 being a girl meant you liked skirts, dresses, bows
That changed too
At age 10 being a girl meant that you were expected to have a crush & kiss him
If you didn’t, you were an outcast
At age 12 your interest in education was to diminish
By age 14 you realized that when a boy slapped your *** you enjoyed it
And if you didn’t you were a lesbian
Ages 12-18 we as girls are told to not show shoulders, knees or skin of any kind because it might distract the boys
I never heard the guys being told to dress a certain way. Have you?
No? I didn’t think so because it might ruin their ego…
Being a girl means that you are blessed with self hate
It’s automatic and hard to lose
There is always an imperfection…
Being a girl means that even when it’s hot, you wear jeans and a baggy tee
So that you don’t have to deal with wondering eyes
Being a girl means that you must look your best ALWAYS or else you’re trash
But not too good or else you’re a **** looking for a good time
Being a girl means that you grow to hate yourself so much that you can’t even look at yourself
Unless you are in public, then you have to act vain
Being a girl means that you have to listen to guys calling you fake because you hate a girl but you’re friends with her the next day
What those guys don’t know is that she saved you from a situation that could’ve made you lose what little dignity you have left
Being a girl means that when you see a grown man starring at a baby…
...you take that baby’s spot
If that means you have to be his princess, babygirl, WHATEVER, for the night
YOU DO IT.
And when you are called a ***** **** the next day, just remember that you helped that child
Being a girl means that when you’re a mother and your little girl asks you why the boys at the school rate the girls on a scale of 1-10 you have to look at her with the same look your mother gave you and tell her,
That being a girl means that you have to be smart, that you have to work 2-3 jobs just to make the same as a guy with 1 job
It’s not fair, but that is how it is.
You have to hug your baby girl when she comes home and tells you that her teacher yelled at her for wearing a tanktop or when a boy touches her even when she told him to stop
To be be a girl means that your are strong
To be a girl means that you are resilient
To be a girl means that you have a secret that is passed down from mother to daughter
And that secret is Unity
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 8:39 AM UTC
i don’t count aloud anymore.
i can't stand to hear your name,
such a common word.
it doesn't matter the context-
i still go quiet every time.
i used to pick up pennies, called them lucky.
i remember picking up a few
on our way back to your place.
nowadays i don't give them a second glance.
it's not their worth i've forgotten.
they say one is the loneliest number.
is that why you did it?
because you felt you’d earned it
after all this time being by yourself--
that you deserved it?
what about me,
did i?
i remember exactly what i wore that day:
short shorts, a big baggy t shirt.
i haven't worn those shoes since (and i so loved them).
they were these expensive purple velvet platforms;
i'd actually had to beg my mother to buy them for me.
"you better wear them", she warned.
that day i went home with you was
the first time i'd ever worn those shoes.
and the last.
sorry mom.
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 5:19 AM UTC
Today inspiration came in the form of a watermelon seed.
I was sitting on the couch
as per usual
and eating watermelon chunks
with my fingers.
I was doing nothing else productive.
I was eating
and being ugly
in my baggy black pullover
and my green pajama pants.
I thought about
how gross I would look
if anyone were to catch me
as I chewed on a mouthful of watermelon
and tried not to choke on the seeds.
I shamelessly licked the watermelon juice from my fingers.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
From the cultured hood of Beverly Hills
Young rich white kid rapping
Blonde hair perfectly combed and trimmed
Blue eyes shaded from California sun
Spitting ghetto slang about unfair pain,
Affirmative action, cultural injustices
Daddy’s allowance, racial profiling
Pimp[le] mobile and spinning rims
Gold plated teeth over pearly whites
Slinging 401k’s and time shares
Baggy pants sagging down past his ***
Tugging at his crotch
His hand permanently attached
To his little white flaccid ****
Trying to keep from tripping
While he’s running from the police
Wanted for questioning
On insider trading
And insurance scams
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 8:48 PM UTC
some are hidden
by long sleeves
and baggy sweatshirts,
behind bloodshot eyes
and stale breath
written in light graphite
on crinkled sheets
in shoeboxes,
therapy sessions
and 2am text messages
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
that night, i wore a polo shirt.
i thought *hey, i'm going to a friend's
dorm, no need to dress up, right?*
so i wore a polo shirt, a yellow and blue and pink
thing. i'd bought it from a charity shop
only weeks earlier, when i was still exploring
a new university town
and finding not-so-hidden gems;
and sure, it was three sizes too big
but it was comfortable, and made me feel safe.
turns out, you didn't care about polo shirts
or tank tops. you cared about what was underneath
and i was drunk enough to let you - or,
well, not really let you, but i didn't need to dress up
so i wore baggy clothes and a smile
so i had half a bottle of jack daniels
and i had a nineteen year old point to prove
and i had a pill that you gave me
and i had - sorry, have - a therapist's bill.
but this isn't about you. i don't write about you.
i make a point of not writing about you,
actually. which is to say that i write about you
in a way that doesn't let you hurt me anymore.
i write about what i was wearing
(did i deserve it? in my 1970s male t-shirt?)
or what i was drinking
(it was university)
or how i tried to throw myself into a river
in the aftermath
(but i didn't, because i got thirsty, and i didn't
want to die thirsty, so i went home).
no, i'm writing about the polo shirt i was wearing.
cotton, i think. polyester, probably.
the amazing technicolour haze of am i sober enough for this?
who knows how many iterations
of the same lancaster charity shop
it circled through, old men with families
and wives and kids -
it probably saw birthdays and christmases
and, safely tucked in the back of a closet,
shielded itself from the almost-crisis of cuban missiles.
and then, me. a nineteen year old
branching out into the world for the first time;
a lover of poetry, maker of music, naïve and beautiful.
then, it was just a polo shirt, and i wore it
as long as it was laundered, for a month or so,
until december. not that i stopped wearing it
because it was cold. it just reminded me of hands
and hands and hands and
**** how many hands can a man have?
how long will i have to feel them?
i didn't shower the day after, just slept.
a hangover, right? just a hangover.
and then, when the hot water in my dorm
daily ticked on, i washed every inch of myself
to get rid of you, and your foam banana shower gel
that your mother probably told you to buy.
so, what compensation do you owe me?
what price should i put on things?
you touch it, so you pay for it.
one charity shop shirt, three pounds please.
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 10:55 PM UTC
Hidden Weapon
By: James Desire
See me walking on the vacant street
What’s your first thought?
Black kid up to no good
See me- surrounded by others, my brothers
What is your second thought?
Black kid in some gang
Must be tattooed and tough
Discrimination- Hidden Weapon
See the clothes I am wearing
Big baggy pants, dark Du-Rag and Ripped shirt
What is your final thought?
Poor old ****** living in a ghetto
Discrimination- Hidden Weapon
Now Listen,
You see me jetting through the silent streets
What would you assume then?
Arrest!
Call the cops
Must have been a ****** a robbery,
Another black boy crime
Discrimination- Hidden Weapon
I am just a black boy trying to survive
Trying to enjoy-just to stay alive
On the street
People judging me cause
The blackness of my skin
The types of clothes I’m in
Discrimination- Hidden Weapon
Unsuspecting black child taunted, haunted…
Fearing that one word-nigga
Should I be blamed for crimes committed in the past?
Choice-less decisions made
Pressure reaches ******
Everything seems lost
At the end
I feel blamed
Nevertheless, I blame you
Whites
Rejecting
Hurting
Me- hopeful
Pride-earned-not given
Defending
Defending my dignity
Discrimination- Hidden Weapon
Should I be judged/blamed for past generations?
Then, blame me for…
The jazz of Louis Armstrong
The voice of Billie Holiday
The poetry of Langston Hughes
The photography of Gordon Parks
The character of Martin Luther King Jr.
The power of Coretta Scott King
The dignity of Fredrick Douglas
Finally, the individuality of James Desire
You seek evil in blacks
The past has also proven a positive…
A positive outcome
That helped the development…
OF OUR WORLD!
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 11:07 AM UTC
My most favorite thing
Is when they still have long hair
And dress like guys do now
Not super baggy pants
But not form fitting either
And you take them to bed,
Or, knowing stems,
They take you to bed.
And all that manliness
About them is still
Just barely there,
In the slope of their shoulders
And the way their hands touch you
But then they get undressed
And it's the most beautiful
Combination
Of boy and girl.
They're so fresh and confident
But not cocky
They're respectful and talented
And it's like they try to only
Show the manly side
But then you get into bed
And it's like unwrapping
A present
That only gets better
Every time you unwrap it
A little piece of their femininity
Uncovered just for you,
In that moment only.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 6:46 AM UTC
I have not been anywhere,
done anything, thought anything,
and feel nothing.
At least,
that’s what my blank, plain-clothed
T-shirt would indicate to other people.
A man walking the earth with
no visible identity.
When I put on my Hawaiian shirt, however,
they believe my mind to be full of
pineapples, hula girls swinging softly in the
ukulele moonlight, palm fronds swaying
in the dacron, or is it rayon, ripples
of my baggy upper man.
Let others think what they might
of my images, or the lack of words
and logos.
My inner tag says that
I’m size “L” and that I’m made on
factory looms in China, that my buttons
are constructed to look like the
real thing–a round slice of bone or
perhaps ivory.
I am not so much anywhere on the
outside, even though there are places
I would like to go fling my few dollars.
Inside, however, I am lost,
pleasantly lost and hiding, within the
convenience of my unprinted shirt.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
One day
Woke up feeling randy
No one else was handy
What's to do?
Get dressed
Satisfy the horn
With badly acted ****
On pay per view
Hopes sink
Cable's on the blink
But twitter lends a helping hand
Bang, bang, come and have a gang bang
Gain entrance on demand
Have a gang bang
Come and have a gang bang
It's a gang bang
Come and have a gang bang
Went out
Followed the directions
Battling erections
All the while
Red cheeks
Granny at the bus stop
Let her vision drop
Then cracked a smile
Half four
Knocking at the door
It opens and a voice proclaims
"Bang, bang, come and have a gang bang
We've far too many dames"
The host was a sight to see
Not far over seventy
And wrapped in a silk dressing gown
I thought I would walk away
But saw that the sky was grey
And it star-
-ted *******
It down
Stepped in
Blinded by a deep gloom
Ushered to a dark room
Curtains shut
Deep breath
Air is old and musty
Carpet feeling crusty
Underfoot
Sprawled there
Women lying bare
And fellas with their organs free
Bang, bang, cover up your **** ****
Regain your decency
Pretty gang bang
Pretty ****** gang bang
****** gang bang
Pretty ****** gang bang
Look round
Writhing on the ground
With squishy little sounds
But something's odd
Fat lass
Itching at her *** crack
Isn't that a ball sack?
Oh my god!
Jaw drops
Granny from the bus stop
Wearing nothing but a grin
Bang, bang, pretty ****** gang bang
What ******* let her in?
She's nothing but skin and bone
With ribs like a xylophone
At least several decades too old
To use the vernacular
It's like bumming Dracula
She's wiry
She's wizened
She's cold
Oh (pretty) no ******
Rasping on my ****
With fingers like a sock
Filled up with ice
No (scary) chance (hairy)
Giving her the slip
My todger's in a grip
Just like a vice
It (saggy) seems (baggy)
Like she's in a dream
While scraping with her ancient hand
Bang, bang, ****** ****** gang bang
My sore and swollen gland
Granny bang bang
Granny granny gang bang
Granny gang bang
Granny ***** gang bang
Knock, knock
Coppers at the door
Go crawling on the floor
And off at speed
What fun
Looking at the punters
Myriad of munters
As they flee'd
Cold, wet
Drowning in regret
With trousers round my knees I stand
Bang bang ****** ****** gang bang
Next time I'll use my hand
Bang bang ****** ****** gang bang
Next time I'll use my haaaaaaaaaaaaaaand!
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 3:00 AM UTC
"I Don't Wanna Talk About It," I Said
"Why Not," They Snickered
Tears Climed Up Into My Eyes--My Mind Reeling,
**** They Snapped In My Direction,"Dirty ****
My Eyes Leveled Onto The Concrete,
My Baggy Clothes Trying To Shield My Body,
From Wondering Gazes,
From Hurtful Words Squirming Into My Heart,
And There He Appeared,
Right In Front Of Me,
His Eyes Cold And Black,
**** He Murmured,"You ***** No Good, ****
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 5:58 PM UTC
I stuck chickens in my baggy tie dye shirt
nuzzled on the couch, coffee in hand.
I enjoyed a deep conversation with a willow tree
and asked how it felt about the other species.
I slid cookies in the back pocket of my tattered jeans
before biking through the morning air.
I smiled at old Ted in the nursing home
with a wink, he smiled back.
I dribbled the basketball with the strong scent
of campfire coming from my backyard.
I danced in the shower
the warm droplets falling on my skin.
I smoked in the sparkling cove
with strangers that became my friends.
I flew off the high rocks
and submerged into cold crystal waters.
I looked into those faded blue eyes,
and chuckled cause' we do that.
I balanced on the fallen limb
and hopped up onto the beautiful stump.
I giggled with my sisters
cause' we made some really mean jokes.
I ate spaghetti with my friends,
and laughed so hard we choked.
I tumbled over tree roots
got back up and kept on trailin'.
I thanked God for this life
and he said you're welcome.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
The rush
The grace
The feeling I get when I dance
My heart beating faster and faster and faster
Until everything falls silent
Its me
And the music
Just Me
And the rhythm
My heart is beating, my feet are moving
My head is spinning, I hit it
A switch turns on inside of me
I’m in it to win it now
I want that platinum, I want to make you proud of me
I want to be the dancer you want me to be
But ballet, thats not it.
You ruined this, you told me I wasn’t good enough
Point your toes,
lift your chin,
hold your leg higher
Do this, do that. Who cares?
Do I look like a prima ballerina to you?
I am not tall, I am not lanky
I am not skinny, I am not light
And I’m sorry but I have *****
You can push me,
Stretch me, pull me in all different directions
To do what?
Make me more flexible, more graceful, more
you
You have beaten me down with your words,
so much that the one thing I loved most in the world
has slowly been slipping away from me
Dance doesn’t define who I am,
It is who I am.
Dance is me
I am dance
I’m big ***** I have strong muscles
I’m not graceful, when you tell me to hit it hard,
I hit it with intensity, with power
Don’t ask me to prance around in a pink tutu.
I won’t.
Put me in harem pants, and a baggy sweatshirt
Throw some beats down
And I’ll groove it
Pop it, slide it, lock it
Sharp sharp smooooooth
So many different moves,
Some don’t even have names
No Fouetté, or jeté
No relevé, or adagio
What do these even mean?
Do I look french to you?
I’d rather body roll
Chest pop
And just let my body do the talking
I don’t dance to impress you
I don’t dance to please your needs
I don’t dance for high scores
I dance to express the words I cannot speak
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
Fat was the first word people used
to describe me when I was a kid
And that didn't bother me much
until I found out it was supposed to
By the time I was fifteen
I knew what it was like to be clinically
overweight, underweight and obese
It was the year of menthol cigarettes
and baggy clothes
Hunching naked over a scale shrine
Mixing ***** with vitamin water,
complimenting each others thigh gaps
*The year breakfast tastes like giving up
and the only time you feel pretty
is when you're hungry*
Not obsessed with being empty
but afraid of being full
Replacing meals with more practical hobbies
like planting flowers or fainting
And ever since I started evaporating,
girls that never spoke to me,
stopped in the hallway
and had the audacity to ask how
And when I told them I was sick,
they told me I was an inspiration
How could I not be in love with my illness?
My eating disorder was the most
interesting thing about me
But how lucky I am now to be boring
To look at a sandwich
and see just a sandwich
Not half an hour of sit ups
or two spent hugging the toilet
This is the year I find more productive
things to do than googling the amount
of sugar on the back of a
lick and stick postage stamp
The year the calculator in my head finally stops
The year that I eat when I'm hungry
without punishing myself
And I know that sounds stupid
**but that **** is hard**
If you're not recovering, you're dying
When people asked me what I wanted to be
when I grew up,
I said skinny
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
Admiration is a word that comes to mind when I think about her work.
The seamstress only has to imagine and she can create a masterpiece of herself.
With every thread, button, and hem she tells a story.
She represents herself with every outfit. Her work molds to her every curve and bump.
She can move effortlessly and not worry about a tair
or loose string.
She can create herself into exactly who she wants to be.
And then there is me.
Who has to fight every zipper,
glare at every neckline,
and gripe at worn out areas that have rubbed and tugged to try and fit
my untamed figure.
The clothes that disguise me only entangle me
in a world of self hate and disappointment.
The number or letter on the tag become scars tattooed in my brain of three words:
not
skinny
enough.
I remember when a boy in line during the 4th grade called me fat ***
I remember when I was taken by my mother to a store that "might have things that fit better."
I remember looking at pictures of myself next to my friends and instantly comparing every inch of myself to theirs.
I remember when I looked at myself and thought, "maybe if you lost 20lbs. you would be attractive."
When the Seamstress looks in the mirror she sees a canvas.
A challenge.
A body that will fit herself.
When I look in the mirror I see a girl fighting to fit in her body.
I see those memories of hiding behind baggy sweaters.
I see countless dressing room breakdowns.
The seamstress must have harsh eyes.
She must have her own burden.
Her clothes may be her own, but is it all a disguise to hide herself too?
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
Justin Bieber is no big deal
I’m not even sure he is real.
He started out as pretty decent
Have you seen anything recent?
He looks like a kid who is trying
To join the gang but is only crying;
Sitting on the sidelines sniffling.
Dressed up in gang stuff and everything.
Poor baby Justin, as rich as a king
Isn’t quite satisfied owning everything
Has to cover up his body with tattoos
Like all the real-life gang members do.
Wears a hat too big for him all sideways
Plays in the sandbox where big kids play.
Wants to look all gangster and rough
But looking like a lesbian makes it tough.
Poor Baby Biebs with his millions of fans
Three pairs of underwear and baggy pants
Grinning like he’s bashful, we know he’s not.
Far too often he has proved himself a snot.
Some of us were worried when he was a kid.
We worried nobody was careful of what he did.
So Baby Justin Bieber is a bit of a wreck
Sort of like the words crawling up his neck.
Justin Bieber makes the young girls scream.
They don’t care he’s not the angel he seems.
If only he would misbehave with them, they think.
They’d let him act the fool, smoke and stink.
Because, after all, when you’re a teen-aged star
It doesn’t really matter just how fake you are.
The thing is be to be fashionable the youthful way
And let them get a glimpse of you every day.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
Messy hair,
Baggy clothes.
My appearance may be bizarre,
But my thinking glows.
Smudged mascara,
Faded lipstick.
Trying to keep up my tiara,
But I’m a little pessimistic.
Five-inch heels,
Bright red dress.
My attitude is my appeal,
My knowledge is what’ll get you possessed.
Not saying that I’m perfect,
Not saying that I’m the best.
But just be careful,
My success has gotten you oppressed.
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
Over the last few days
I have constructed a new basic description of myself:
I am the seventeen year old
poet with a white beard and baggy, bruised-looking eyes
who only ever uses his left hand when playing badminton.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
There are boys that cry,
There are girls who have dry eyes.
There are boys that dance or play volleyball,
There are girls that wrestle or play football.
There are boys who drive VW Bugs,
There are girls that drive trucks.
There are boys that bake,
There are girls that shred.
There are boys that like the Notebook,
There are girls that like Transformers.
There are boys that are romantics at heart, looking for love,
There are girls that aren't into flowers or love songs.
There are boys with hair to their knees,
There are girls with shaved heads.
There are boys with diaries and journals full of memories,
There are girls who have no desire to write down all the details.
There are boys with names like Aubry,
There are girls with names like Sam.
There are boys with insecurities about their bodies,
There are girls who don't weigh themselves ever.
There are boys with eating disorders,
There are girls who work out for the ideal 6 pack.
There are boys that prep endlessly for a date,
There are girls who take 5 minutes to get out the door.
There are tidy, neat boys,
There are messy, whirlwind girls.
There are boys in dresses,
There are girls in baggy jeans and a pullover.
There are boys who shop endlessly,
There are girls who can't stand the mall.
There are boys that talk about their emotions,
There are girls who would rather not.
There are boys that look after the kids,
There are girls that work full-time.
There are boys who are nurses,
There are girls who are engineers.
There are boys who cook,
There are girls that change the oil in the car.
There are boys who are complacent and subordinate,
There are girls who are dominant and overpowering.
There are boys with no desire to get it in on the first date,
And there are some girls who wouldn't mind if they do.
And those are all okay. Gender stereotyping only limits what you can and can't do. Let the boys cry and write poetry and eat chocolate when they're sad and talk about their feelings. Let the girls be aggressive and wrestle their buddies and play ball and drive sports cars. Let people do as they please. You're born as you a are, you can't decide what gender you are. You can decide what you do with your gender though, or rather what it won't keep you from doing. Your gender is only an aspect of who you are, don't let it dictate your actions to appease a society that has deemed what is and is not okay for you to do simply because you're either a guy or girl.
There are boys and girls that can grow up to be what they please, do as they wish and speak as they will. Don't be the one to tell them otherwise.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
So no one told you **** was gonna cost this much (clap clap clap clap) Your jobs a joke, you're broke, Can't even buy some lunch. It's like you're always stuck to scraping rez, But, When you can't afford **** or food, you can thank our Pres-i-dent, But, I will smoke with you, until my baggy is no more, I will smoke with you, like I've smoked you up before, I will smoke with you, Because you've smoked with me too.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
It's been years and somehow you're back for me
But I've long since moved on and I'm satisfied.
Yes, you were a dream to kiss and yes, you were nice to hug.
I don't need you with your baggy sweat and regrets
I don't want you either like I used to.
I really am fine just being myself;
I'd be happy if I never saw you again.
I just don't feel it anymore in my bones,
My heart doesn't beat for you;
I don't want your hate or benefits.
I never hated you
But Time has changed and taken me
You couldn't keep up with the flow.
So I don't want you to slow me down
I don't want you back in my life
No, I don't want you back in my life.
It's too bad you were left behind
But you're killing yourself to keep up
It doesn't make a difference
No, it really doesn't.
Time doesn't wait for anyone
Time allowed us to drift away
And I'm fine with that
We don't need to be reattached.
I just don't feel it anymore in my bones,
My heart doesn't beat for you;
I don't want your hate or benefits.
I never hated you
But Time has changed and taken me
You couldn't keep up with the flow.
So I don't want you to slow me down
I don't want you back in my life
No, I don't want you back in my life.
During this time I realised
I'm the player, you were the fool
I was lonely when I wanted you.
But it's nice to say that memories stay
And you made me smile and still do.
But I don't need that sparkle in your eyes
I don't want you either like I used to
I'm fine just being myself because you took that away from me.
I just don't feel it anymore in my bones,
My heart doesn't beat for you;
I don't want your hate or benefits.
I never hated you
But Time has changed and taken me
You couldn't keep up with the flow
So I don't want you to slow me down
I don't want you back in my life
No, I don't want you back in my life.
I don't need that sparkle in your eyes
I have oxygen and hope to stay alive
You'll never hold me back like you used to
You won't anchor me to drown.
7th October 2016
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 2:59 AM UTC
Where are our clowns
With baggy waist-coats
Filled with promises;
Clowns wearing
Borrowed crowns.
One plucks a rose
In his white garden,
To pin on his lapel;
He's a squirter
And it shows.
One's in the square
With large red shoes
Putting on a show.
But feet don't fit,
Soon he'll trip
With tongue-in-cheek ego.
One has rhine-red ruffs
Around her neck,
Her GNP
Surpasses debt;
Her audience finds
They too get wet.
A three-ringed circus
We're wise to regret.
One in the Yuan
Has a red nose on,
A harlequin clown
Asleep in red dawn.
But tweak his nose
And the tent comes down
On the Big Top Shows.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC