"catcall" poems
She was not just "asking for it"
Her skirt showing her long limbs
She is not one to submit
Or to give up when told to quit
She will not stand for your catcall
For your whistle and "hey there, doll"
You should not be appalled
Because she really can rule it all
She is fierce and she is true
She's neither higher nor lower, but she is equal to you
Her body is not just something you can tear down and *****
So, pack your things and say adieu
She is feminine
As well as pure adrenaline
Cease to examine this "specimen"
And become a true gentleman
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
I Send my words hurling into your airway like swords
I bite off your tongue with every sharp response my body conjures
I have every witty comeback on speed dial to drill into your spine
The way your gays drilled into mine Pull old pennies from my pockets and throw them into your eyes
So you may not look at me the way you have for so long
You're are barely worth my pennies anyways
Here's a donation to your sorry ***
How about I grasp your neck, at just the right spot, just hard enough, to crush your voice box
To dwindle your air pipe just a little
So you cannot throw those trash comments at anyone else
How about I crack each of your fingers
Push them deep into your pockets
So that you can't feel anything without remembering me
You look at me like a mannequin in the window of your favorite retail store
You try yo put a price on what I'm worth
Maybe you can try me on
Throw me on the floor
Grab another
How about I tattoo my name on your chest
So that you cannot take off another piece of clothing
Take off another girl
Throw them in the floor
And not remember me
You will never throw me on the floor again
For I am permanently burned into your chest
How about I burn off each hair on your body
One at a time let it Sizzle down and sear the skin
Let each tiny poor feel the pain one at a time over and over and over again
Until you are left, raw
This
Is the day I speak back when you catcall me from across the street
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 7:21 PM UTC
I think about the face of a woman
and her smooth skin
soft lips
the curvature of the Earth is kin to her hips
I feel humanity suffering needlessly
beneath her cells
as I wander her valleys and sand-dune hills
she is the beach
the ocean
the calling of many gulls screaming for food and
I love her white *******
But she is sneaky
and cares for me
caressing is painful
I see it in my own eyes the next day
when the smudgy bruises flit across my reflection
But men understand
without either of us speaking a **** word
we drive
we shout
we catcall
we game
the music takes us and we run for days
doing nothing
anything
and i guess sometimes we ****
Succinct and supernatural
Brawn or brown skin or bright ideas gone awry
always a good day with the gang or the bros
I feel safer in the hoods
I want her to notice me, and to shyly skip over like she did last week
i want to kiss her neck and pull back
soon enough to catch her half-lidded gaze into the abyss behind me
I want to wear boxers and treat her to fancy dinners
But
I want to be her
I want taste a mustache
I want to be lifted overhead like a little sister
and brought back to the earth with sweet
exploration
Impossibility
I want women and men to be the same thing
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
Sugar and spice and everything nice,
Wolverine claws and a venomous bite,
Armed to the teeth for a ***** fight:
This is what teenage girls are made of.
Maybe I fall in love too easily,
But I’m just sixteen.
And I’m just sixteen but
When you cat call me and I pretend not to hear you,
You call me catty as if it’s surprising.
When you wolf whistle at me and I ignore you,
You call me names that aren’t PG.
I’m just sixteen but I’ve got news for you:
I’m a she-wolf, far from domesticated so
Whistling will do nothing for you.
I don’t answer the call of any man, because
I’m a lioness, and every time you catcall me
You forget who does the hunting.
You need reminding, to be put in your place.
You’re a predator but I’m not your prey-
No, you’re a predator but I’m much, much
Much higher up on the food chain.
Whistle and call all night long,
I’ll chew you up and spit you out
Like the kind of bubble gum that isn’t worth a trash can.
I’d call you a pig, but pigs usually have a
Higher IQ than you do.
My bones are made of titanium, of Adamantium, and
My rage came from the cosmos, and I control hurricanes with the water in my lungs.
I am catty,
And I am a *****
But you are a nobody,
Food for the vultures and
A piece of furniture to sharpen my claws on.
You may be a knife, but my heart is a diamond.
I am a diamond, and you are made of fossil fuels.
We are both the product of years of pressure,
But I took my disasters and made myself beautiful.
You let yourself become ugly, nowhere to go
Except standing on corners late at night,
Pollution spilling from your mouth and your eyes.
Leave me alone.
That’s not me being ‘hard-to-get,’ no,
That’s my wolf howl and the growl of my inner lioness.
Leave me alone,
Or else.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
I hate you when you catcall her
I feel the anger rise, tightly coiled in my stomach
Clench my fists and feel my blood pound,
Because I know what you do to her,
Reducing her to her body, just for your pleasure.
To you she is only a body, just another opportunity to prove
your manliness, your superiority.
Just another girl to humiliate.
I know this and my rage roars, a dragon, untamable
ready to tear into you the second you try it with me.
But then as I walk pass, the voices are silent.
No calls, no whistles,
I don't exist.
The dragon within me becomes confused,
am I really so ugly, so unwanted, so plain,
that the **** on the streets, the ******** who harass girls as they walk,
won't even look at me?
What's wrong with me?
The dragon fades and a new type of hate arises.
I hate myself, my stupid hair, my ******* up jaw, my plain appearance.
I should feel lucky for the blessed silence, the peaceful walk,
but instead I feel a nauseating sense of shame and hate for myself,
As I tuck my head down like a good girl and hurry home,
Trying not to cry.
Society has turned being harassed as a goal to reach for.
Keep telling us "it's a compliment"
And sooner or later we'll start to believe it.
But that doesn't make it true.
So I sit sharping my nails, not sure whose throat to rip out,
Yours? Or mine?
Because you've told me,
It's not ladylike for me to hate anyone,
Except myself.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
we caught eyes
in this convenience store
but
not because i fancied you.
i was piercing you
with my gaze
lips pursed, ready to spew
all of the hatred that swelled within me.
you were air and I was a balloon
but
you didn't expect something so hard
from someone so "soft"
because since i was a child
i was taught to speak only when spoken to
to do what men expect you to do
to find comfort in getting someone to fall in love with you
but i will not settle with
being defined by someone else,
not even you.
ive spent far too long holding my tongue
because that's what they expect women to do
they expect you to stay silent while they undress you
not just with their bodies
but with their words, falling like dominoes, spreading until the last one falls
but when will the last one fall?
when will I feel comfortable walking home by myself?
when will my clothes no longer be a form of consent?
when will the lines be paralleled?
when will birth no longer be punishment?
and when that day comes
when a boy tells my daughter what she should and shouldn't do,
his words like howling winds, destroying everything in their path,
she will have been made of stone.
and when he compares her to other girls, she will know wholeheartedly that she is a beautious being
and not because someone told her so.
so, here we are in this convenience store.
and i no longer hold my tongue.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 11:53 PM UTC
One evening I was walking home,
nice dress and heels stomping pavement
of the moonlit streets in my home city.
I've got something you'd love to grab onto, babe.
Catcall. It's not a compliment. It's demeaning.
He says ***** but all I seem to hear is
strong. daring. opinionated. outspoken.
Because that's what he's saying
when I stand up for myself.
when I act outside the roles of a "good" woman.
What he hope, with a five letter word,
is that I'll shut up, sit down, be seen and not heard.
because that's what being a woman is:
suppressed.
So, thank you sir, because all you've really done
is given me a reason to fight harder
a purpose to speak louder
and a way to stand taller.
"I've got something you'd love to grab onto, babe."
"What a shame... I forgot my tweezers."
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
My momma, she taught me to be a lady
never treat a lady sister shady
to walk with my head held high
respect is to look me in the eye
to always be polite
it doesn't matter who is right
say please and thank you
give credit where it is due
and you
who taught you to be a man?
who are you trying to be better than
who taught you to talk down to me
like I’m some kind of discount deli meat
cause I walk down the street
strangers whisper “hey ****
then they flex for me
“I’m just looking to get more ***** in my life"
keys between my fingers cause I can't carry a knife
**** where you going tonight?”
this **** well ain’t right.
Cars beep and slow down as I walk alone
asking if they can pick me up and take me home
it’s not a compliment, more of a threat
heightened consciousness makes me sweat
feel unprotected, cheap
another car horn beep
you gents just don’t see it
the wrongs those guys commit
the slimy unyielding stare
cause when it happens you’re not there.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 5:35 AM UTC
Someday we will have DJs at funerals.
I should know. I DJ'd a wedding once.
Well I shan't say I DJ'd the wedding.
I merely pressed play on the tiny boom box (SONY) and here comes the bride.
Twas a beautiful wedding.
A black wedding.
The bride was my first cousin Tamara.
Yes the whole thing was beautiful.
Stop it already.
A scant 4 years later I attended her death.
A rainy morning.
A call.
Awoken early
the morning sun not up.
I have a photograph taken July 27, 2003 maybe!
My brother her sister and I on a Carribean cruise. I'm sticking a tongue out. I was mad at the fine Bahamian wearing fake dreads making money by posing for photos for the non-natives. But if you bypass my tongue in the photograph you can see her. You can see the foursome of us smiling with some random Bahamian fake dread.
If you look slightly left in the photograph you can see her smile.
Her smile.
Her joie de vivre.
A moment if you will allow me. Away from the boat the Bahamian boys would not leave her alone. They would whistle, catcall, stare and menace. But she was my family. She was my cousin. Her protector and her friend. Those boys' eyes would follow us. But when I held her hand down the boardwalk they did not dare come within punching distance.
I will refrain from her beauty.
Her elegance.
Her ability to tell me to 'shut the **** up' with only a glance.
Somewhere buried I have the video of her wedding.
I can't watch it anymore but perhaps I should.
I need to see her happy again.
Beautiful again and
looking forward.
United States
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 1:46 AM UTC
It’s thirty years since I travelled back
To wander my childhood home,
To check out the trees I used to climb
And the fields where I used to roam,
I remembered the friends that used to play,
Wendy and Paul and Mark,
And the local bully that had his way
Back then, in the Boating Park.
We’d go up there on a Sunday, pay
Our money and hire a boat,
That fourpence each to the gatekeeper
Saw the three of us afloat,
Each boat had paddlewheels either side
You could turn, and stop or start,
Or spin around in a circle, just
For fun, at the Boating Park.
The Park, laid out in a rectangle
Took an hour to paddle round,
Once out of sight of the gatekeeper
The banks would muffle the sound,
We’d scream and shriek and laugh and beam
As we rammed each other’s boats,
I often thought it a wonder that
We didn’t puncture the floats.
Then over beyond the halfway mark
We lay in the shade of trees,
The sun would sink, it was getting dark
And we’d hear the murmur of bees,
We had to pass there under a bridge
And duck, for the bridge was low,
And that’s where the bully McPherson stood
On the bridge, those years ago.
He’d jeer, throw stones and catcall as we
Tried to get under the span,
Then climb and drop into Wendy’s boat
He wouldn’t have tried with a man.
He’d paddle over the further side
And make her get out of the boat,
Then paddle it back the way we came
Get out, and leave it afloat.
One Sunday I sat under the bridge
With Paul and Mark beside,
While Wendy came along on her own
As if on a solo ride,
The bully tried the very same thing
But we each pulled on his coat,
And when he came up, he couldn’t scream
For the water lodged in his throat.
He splashed about and he tried to grab
The boat, but his clothes, like lead,
Were trying to drag him down, while Paul
And Mark, they stood on his head.
Wendy had clambered up on the bank
Controlled, and well in command,
For every time he tried to get out,
She’d stamp and stomp on his hand.
The paper said it was very strange
That he must have put up a fight,
But hadn’t the strength to pull himself
Up out of the cut that night.
His hands and fingers were shredded, where
He’d tried to climb up the bank,
But the weight of his heavy, sodden clothes
Were the demons he had to thank.
I went to visit the Boating Park
It was just the way I feared,
I met up there with an older Mark,
A man with a greying beard,
He told me Wendy and Paul were dead
Weighed down with a sense of sin,
And the gatekeeper at the Boating Park
Had gone, when they filled it in.
David Lewis Paget
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 5:05 AM UTC
after Sanam Sheriff.
In this dream, the statistic isn’t 1 in 3 because there is no statistic. There is no **** whistle swaying from our necks. No Rohypnol swimming in our drinks. There is no need for colour-changing nail polish to tell us that the stranger we haven’t seen or the friend that we have is trying to take advantage of us in the alley behind the club. Or our cars in the grocery store parking lot. Or our bedrooms as our mothers think they have just gone to the bathroom. In this dream, we have no need to invent a word such as **** No need to be afraid of who’s in the dark. No need to be afraid for our daughters. No need to panic every time a man raises his voice. Every time a man raises his hand. Every time a man raises his belt buckle. In this dream, there is no more catcall, no ass-grab, no staring so hard it feels like his eyes have already touched us in places we never consented to. In this dream, consent is part of the foreplay. In this dream, we do ask for it. In this dream, they don’t touch us otherwise.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 4:48 PM UTC
When I walk to work I keep my earphones in
Music doesn’t even have to play
Maybe that way I can ignore the whistles
Just 4 more blocks and I’ll be there
Okay things are looking good
Those group of men aren’t outside today
I can relax now
Just 3 more blocks and I’ll be there
Wait no that car is slowing down
Please don’t say anything to me
“Hey baby”
Just pretend you don’t hear it
Don’t look his way
He will just keep on driving
Just 2 more blocks and I’ll be there
Okay now there’s another group of men
I see children outside that home all the time
They wouldn’t dare catcall me when they have daughters of their own
Just incase put in the other earphone so they think you can’t hear them
They keep staring
Oh no they’re going to say something
That dreadful whistling begins
“Hey girl”
“Aye”
“Gorgeous”
It goes on until I pass and have shown no sign of response
Just 1 more blocks and I’ll be there
Okay now the earphones go out
I have to put my phone away before I get into work so I can be prepared to answer phones
Just don’t make eye contact with any men
“Hi beautiful”
“How you doin today”
“What you shy”
Yup now I’m done
“Nah I’m actually 15 and my day was going great”
He’s not walking away
Please leave me alone
Don’t worry just 3 more doors
“I love your hair”
Oh are you sure it wasn’t my ***
But I don’t dare say that
Don’t worry just 2 more doors
“You got a phone”
“Can I get your number”
Was the age not enough, is this man stupid
Maybe I’ll just say I’m gay and he’ll leave me alone
Don’t worry just 1 more door
“Okay I see”
“See you again”
No thank you
Please don’t try to speak to me again
I can’t wait till I can just drive to work
I’ve made it inside
In here there are other people around
I will smile to keep from being rude
While declining any source of unwanted attention
Can they not see I’m a child
I tell them I’m only 15 years old
Sometimes that doesn’t matter
Now I just want to go home
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 8:07 AM UTC
You look at my body
And tell me i'm pretty
I turn away and you say
"Dang what a hottie"
Why is it that every time i hear
a catcall or whistle
instead of feeling good
I turn in anger and I bristle
I wish when you saw my curves
you wouldn't gawk
instead walk over to me
and let's talk
I feel nasty in my own skin
I shrink out of embarrassment
uncomfortable in the only place I've ever been
wishing more than anything that I had no body
I fear that the only reason you like me
is not for my heart
wish that wasn't how it has to be
but that's how it's been from the start
So I will ask now
how
when
who
will love me, for me?
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
We catcall our deaths
Until they show
A little skin.
Then we run back
To the ones
We've abandoned,
Just to say
We needed them
All along.
We mistake determinism
For free will
We mistake calculated moves
For wishful thinking.
These are our lives.
And if reincarnation
Is just another form
Of procrastination,
Why postpone
The inevitable?
New organs
For old bodies.
Old souls
For new flesh.
When your day
Has come
Will who you are
Be the same
As who
You could have been?
When we finally hit empty
For the last time,
Will it really be
The last time?
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
On a scale of 1-10, 1 being the lowest and 10 being the highest:
1. How cute did my **** look as I walked home from school?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
2. How old must a girl be before you catcall her?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
3. How many miles is a girl allowed to travel from her home before she is a target?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
4. In this deadly hot summer, how many layers must a girl wear to protect herself from your cries?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
5. How many times has this method of courtship ever been effective?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
6. How many boys does a girl need in order to protect her from you?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
7. How many times has someone catcalled your mother, your sister, your daughter?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
8. If unable to answer Question 7, how many times have they come home crying, holding their clothes tight to shield themselves?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
9. How many letters are in my name?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
I'm sorry. That last question was unfair.
You would never know my name because,
despite all the curses and jeering,
you never once asked for it.
My name is @@@@@@.
I am not your "baby."
I am not your **
I am not your ****
I am me, and I belong to no one.
10. How likely are you to allow me to not be anything else?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 9:05 PM UTC
A dog somehow learned cat-speak,
thought the second language, part of his camoflague
but his attempts for catcall sounded like muffled dog's howl
caterwaul, should I need to say, was all foul,
quite threatening to any cat with a bit of self-respect.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
There was a boy
And a pretty girl
The boy thought,
I'll give her a whirl
She passed, "You're hot--hot as the sun"
He felt a very clever one
She stopped when she heard it,
And then she turned
"Don't get too close to the sun,
You might get burned"
Not heeding her,
"How close can I get?"
I'm not going to let her walk off just yet
She glared at him, hiding mischievous smiles
"No less than 93 million miles "
At the end of his wits,
As she strolled out of range,
He yelled, "But how can I get closer?"
"Maybe with season change!"
And as she disappeared from sight,
The horizon fizzled out
And the new moon glittered
And all the stars came out
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC
I wish that women were people.
I wish that no girl will ever again be limited by the norms of our society.
That no girl will be told that she cannot, that she must not.
That her dreams, her personality are inappropriate or wrong.
That colours are not gendered and that she can wear green, blue or yellow as she pleases.
I wish that teenage girls learn to love themselves.
Learn that they are not inferior. That loosing weight,
looking skinny and pretty are not the goals they should starve themselves to reach. That boys are stupid and they don't have to put up with their ****
That the men who hoot after them, catcall them are creeps unworthy of their attention. That being pressured into stripping on Skype by older men can be reported and that mom in most cases do understand what they're going through.
I wish that young adult women never had to feel pressure to be feminine.
That they never feel forced to shave, to let their hair grow, to wear make-up.
That they never have to force themselves into heels that hurt their feet and learn to spit in the leering faces of men, to say 'fuck you' without fear of being assaulted and knowing full well how to make a man regret putting his gross, entitled hands on them.
I wish that mothers never had to fear for their daughters.
I wish that mothers never had to hold and comfort their baby girls after nightmare parties with monsters masquerading as boys.
I wish that women did not have to live in fear.
I wish we did not have to watch our bodies used as props, sold like pieces of meat at the butcher.
I wish we did not have to fight for the right to own our bodies.
I wish that women knew that 'No' is a complete sentence and needs no justification.
I wish that women knew their worth.
I wish that women knew they were people.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
I don’t mean to be insulting
To all you devout Blisstians
But I am not, and won’t be
Any kind of American Christian.
I have studied long and hard
Over a half century of years
And thus, I shall leave you all
To your hopes and your fears.
I find your religion
A strange philosophy.
It doesn’t quite work,
Or so seems to me.
Your god will have
An End Of Days mess
You do what you want
And then you confess.
You can be a right *****
Until you are ninety three
And then confess to Jesus
And you’re home free.
So, tell me again, please
How does this thing go
That there are things that your
Omnipotent god doesn’t know?
It doesn’t seem to be
Well thought out to me.
After thousands of years
Of sainted holy history.
It sounds more like it’s
A money-making scheme;
A deferred payment plan,
A fun-house ride of screams.
Looking back on the stories,
Two thousand years of war;
Of persecution and burning
And horrendously much more.
And who wrote what and when,
And more importantly why,
This mythological poem here
Could make a grown scholar cry.
So, I shall reserve my judgment
About your Judgment Day
I’ll go on and live my life
In a kind and considerate way.
I won’t put on your robes
And make your sacrifices.
I will thank you all to leave me
To my own Un-Christian devices.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC
What are YOU looking at?
Smack that ***
Talk about sass.
Looking at me sweetheart?
Well **** off, I'll only tear you apart.
You think you can change me?
We'll see about that,
You rearrange me?
What a dumb ****
What else have you got to say for yourself?
Sexualizing women's bodies,
Your catcall can help **** oneself,
But it wouldn't be just your fault, it'd be everybody's.
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 2:31 PM UTC
Come talk to me over the chattering mouths
Of customers and acquaintances.
We can drink coffee in the beer garden,
Agitating the tobacco leaves far too often
And using friendship as therapy.
You’ll sit with your sunglasses framed in your hair.
An old scar is a teardrop, as we claim compensation
For the damage done in our years apart.
Come walk with me through old graveyards,
As the living take to existence.
Teenagers catcall and chase each other in the park,
They shelve their hair in the wind
And religiously practice apathy.
We link arms past the tree hollow full of syringes,
Knowing there is nothing left to surprise us.
These streets are turning into a gamble;
Bookmakers, cash converters and hairdressers
Train feet towards the old clock tower.
Only the sprawl of supermarket isles
Keeps ignorance well-fed in this town.
Come listen to these old songs with me.
The poet is dead, but the melody lives,
And it is still wonderful to be alive.
Come with me past the crooked spire;
The devil left long ago.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
Do you think i look pretty
Just for your attention?
Sorry but if you threaten me,
My skirt should not be mentioned
We are both human and I
Don't wolf-whistle at your ****
I have some decency and won't
Catcall as you walk past
Whatever I wear is solely
For me and not for you,
I don't deserve attack or
**** or any kind of abuse
If I want to show my legs,
Then that is just fine
And if I like this dress, your
Assault shouldn't cross my mind
Even if I walked naked,
I wouldn't be asking for it
Besides I was always told:
"If you've got it flaunt it!"
Why should I take steps to
Repel you and protect myself,
When the real question is
Why can't you control yourself?
© Tara India.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
There is ONE.
A girl cries herself to sleep after her boyfriend of 3 months tries to get up her skirt and then tells her she's not pretty when she denies him.
There are TWO.
A boy cuts his wrists after his girlfriend of 8 months leaves him because he won't sleep with her. He's 13. She's 12.
There are THREE.
A young woman kills herself after people tell her that her **** was her fault because she was impaired. It was just a fun night out with the girls to celebrate getting their Masters Degrees.
There are FOUR.
A young college male drowns himself in pills after being beaten and sodomized by straight males on his daily walk home from work because, "that's all **** are good for and we know you like it."
There are THOUSANDS MORE
A child that stops speaking because a family friend starts touching inappropriately and taking pictures.
Adults that carry weapons they aren't trained to use because others catcall them or follow them home.
A woman that takes a boxing class, not because she loves to box, but because her ex boyfriend beat her so bad she nearly died.
The mother that can't let her kids outside because strangers are no joke.
The middle school girl that snuck out of the house in a mini-skirt that never made it home.
"Every 109 seconds, an American is sexually assaulted.
And every 8 minutes, that victim is a child. Meanwhile, only 6 out of every 1,000 perpetrators will end up in prison." RAINN
Check out https://www.rainn.org/statistics
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
Unlike the sea,
I stabbed by do re mi
Bleed until a la, a ti
A higher do on the bottom of a pond!
Unlike smoking,
Too much fascinated by fake kindness kills you
Hit by another train
I breathe strangers' death on the street, in front of a hospital
There, spiders, there, cockroaches
Rains hard, a cricket flood
Don't catcall me, I am scared!
Where's the rainbow?
I have fear of insects and sometimes people
Scream for me if you don't want me to
Cry for me if you don't want me to
Begin your episode if you want me to stop
I'll clap and clap and clap and clap
I am a clown! A happy clown!
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
Don’t catcall after her
as a means of substituting
a compliment she’d rather hear
Don’t objectify her body
or her thoughts
and think you can make them
your own, because you can’t
She is a fortress of neurons
standing strong with wires crossed
like barbed fences to keep
out swine aiming to satiate
the desires in both heads
Don’t say you wish you lived
in a time where bigotry,
misogynist perspectives,
and gender were divided
by a pedestal and the floor
you think she should clean for you
Wash your mouth with acid
and let it melt away your tongue
Digest the flesh like a wolf tearing
away at the carcass
of some fresh, bloodied prey
Pray that she who brought you
into this world doesn’t trample you
beneath the weight of her stiletto
as it gouges your cheekbone
She is the one
who carried your monstrous form
inside her caving bones and muscle
She fed you before you
could even open your mouth
to digest the filth
that some high and mighty male
forced down your throat
She is not a ****** object
of your fantasies and fallacies
about how your breed of idiocy
is somehow superior
to her own power
She is a woman, and she will stand
with you or above you
Never shall she stand below
your pathetic gaze
you could never be
If any words be spoken
with the utmost sincerity,
let them be these:
“I’m sorry.”
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC