"constrained" poems
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine.
At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal.
It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity.
(A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds)
A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past.
Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre.
Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators.
I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success.
However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative.
A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message;
Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages.
To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past!
Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors!
Purcy Flaherty.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
you've been on my mind a lot recently
polluting my thoughts
contaminating my very being
with idle inklings
and constrained affections
making everyday tasks
near impossible
I'm going insane,
but I love it.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
When I'm on a field
I can be free
When I'm with my family
I can be free
When I'm with little children
I can be free
When I'm with animals
I can be free
When I write
I can be free
...
But when I'm anywhere else
I'm constrained by
a cage known as-
self consciousness
social anxiety
shyness
She comes by many names
...
By any chance,
are you familiar with her?
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 10:43 PM UTC
Imminent grainy current
constrained in flight
downward
onto
a pile of past moments
/#dmperez
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 10:24 PM UTC
"And in a funny way, the shaving of my, uh, head has been a liberation from, uh, a lot of, uh, stupid vanities really. Uh, it has simplified everything for me, it has opened a lot of doors maybe." - Stephen Malkmus, Jo Jo's Jacket
the first layer of skin i shed
was the bra
rid of the foreign metal sculptor producing a deep rift between skin
my third eye, swallowing gazes
rid of my **** , my ***** , my rack
replaced with sacks of fat and nerve and milk ducts
hanging, existing, for no one else
not even myself
the second layer of skin was the painting of the face
the concealing and erasing of imperfections, the lines of laughter of sorrow of life
redirecting attention and importance to the bow and symmetry of the lip
no longer did i have to put myself on in the morning
i woke up as i was, as i needed to be,
bare and uninhibited
my skin now breathed, and for no one else
not even myself
and then i grew another layer of skin,
made of dank tangles to protect my age,
i stopped shaving the years i'd walked this earth, shedding my womanhood
the skin grew to my armpits, little tufts of sweaty, odorous mother nature dozing in a fleshy convex nest
and to my legs, were the tangles wrapped around my ankles
preventing the spreading of the legs for every life
for not every life wanted what was not tame
and what was not tame no longer wanted to be.
my body did not conform,
for it was not brought into this world to be consumed for the pleasure of others
it exists for no one else,
not even myself
and as i was engulfed in this hairy wonder of my own body
i shed the last layer,
the shaving of the head
my brain, my being breathed
porous and exposed
vulnerable to weather and whispers
but i was all at once naked and calm,
having finally peeled away the layers of ***** over-sexualization and constrained femininity that had molded this meat sack that serves me,
a bundle of circuitry and solution balancing and bobbing on the neck
for i exist for no one else,
only myself
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 10:48 AM UTC
How Edison and Tesla warred
To be the first to capture light.
A replacement for fire
And an ode to the sun.
Guiding travelers
Across sky, land, and seas.
Balming my hungry skin with rays
When I’m jonesing for the sunshine.
Bringing life to what was once still
Shadows dance across glowing plains.
Illumination to our world
No longer constrained by dawn and dusk.
The power of storms harnessed
To fuel our weapon against the dark.
Transcending to be hopes beacon
Against all fear.
Miniaturized to be as small as a dot
Oh how we hunger for our light.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
there nothing left
he says I'm so sorry
as superman eats kryptonite
it burns inside
the pain almost as bad as has been his hole life
but it's familiar
like a face you haven't seen in many years
Lois lane was shot and killed
because superman had loved her dear
and the farm was sold when Jon and Martha ran all out of years
so he sits around and wonders
hanging hollow from his fears
so he looks down at the bottles that have gathered on the floor
and calls up old Lex Luthor in a move to end the war
when he came his nose constrained as the smell of ***** pervaded
supper man gave him a gun
thanked him for the games
he told the tale from his perspective and asked lex to deal the blow
because he new he had worked for it and didn't want to take his goal
so with a bang his life was ended not a word more ever spoke
and to this day the name will still make pore old lex tear up and choke
Dec 31, 2010
Dec 31, 2010 at 3:28 AM UTC
.
Feint is the Muse,
that looks upon me,
challenging my existence
with deep baleful interest.
Its struggles hard
to contain its indifference
at the mere mortality
that I conduct.
And conduct I do.
As melody takes
centre stage
in a flight of fancy,
constrained by rhythm
temperate, steady,
and insistent.
The cadenced beat
of skins keeping time
to a fanfare of sound.
But my voice is silent,
conspicuous by its absence,
in mute violation
of speechless freedom.
The words won't come,
no song message birthed
for altruism
nor benefit of composition.
The flight of fancy stalls
and gently rocks in a cradle
of anticipation.
Rhythm drops to a meagre
pelvic twitch,
insistence foregone and forgotten
in a cynical parody
of the vocal deficiency.
Velvet drapes lick
the wooden floor stage,
and the performance
has just begun.
© Pagan Paul (14/11/18)
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 6:56 PM UTC
My dreams whisper sweet things
And surreptitiously speak to me
My waking words are rote and empty
-spilling with hypocrisy
Yet their comforting embrace
Simply bring smiles to my face
Filling my mind while I'm asleep
They send messages lined with silver That vanish when I wake
To bring about a dull and listless form Who is shaping my last mistake
You see I wake in a storm
Simultaneously feeling constrained
To my bed
I can't get up while there's no filter
For the rush of noises in my head
If there's a difference between
What you know and what you believe Then why is it not as easy
To imagine my reprieve
Why can I only experience a vivid life
While I sleep
Then once again wake up
To this Fear Doubt and Anger
Choking me
Invoking me by pushing buttons
Of their endless promises
To for certain be found in youth
While my vision is livid sinning
Contemplating and pinpointing
Who too close is uncouth
You sit there and feed my veins
An explanation to your lies
With all the compromised
Washed up water
Memorized methods
Coping mechanisms
While it's your heart that remains
Aloof
Then sit there in desperation
Reiterating as if you know
The deep introspective answer
When any fool can see your wisdom
Is wrought in the vanity
Of a talented dancer
If you lost the truth of sanity
Would you retrieve it for ten cents
Or would you search inside
Before hiding from the confines
Of a necessary moment
I'd rather die or sacrifice my life
Before cowering from what's hidden
The message so raw
That counts your flaws
Like there was some proof
In what is missing
But ultimately I guess
It comes down to the small decision
The chip on my shoulder
That became a boulder
When I reached out
For my inner vision.
So while I feel so disparate and alone
In the trenches losing my senses
Will I be the hero or be the villain
Will I let the poison make me it's toy
Or take the penicillin
*Some days my life feels as heavy
As that last breath left over
From how loudly I shout
But I guess a general synopsis to you
Of how I sometimes feel inside
Is a decent first step to waking up
While I'm down and out*
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 4:53 AM UTC
No strength of nature can suffice
To serve the Lord aright:
And what she has she misapplies,
For want of clearer light.
How long beneath the law I lay
In ******* and distress;
I toll'd the precept to obey,
But toil'd without success.
Then, to abstain from outward sin
Was more than I could do;
Now, if I feel its power within,
I feel I hate it too.
Then all my servile works were done
A righteousness to raise;
Now, freely chosen in the Son,
I freely choose His ways.
"What shall I do," was then the word,
"That I may worthier grow?"
"What shall I render to the Lord?"
Is my inquiry now.
To see the law by Christ fulfilled
And hear His pardoning voice,
Changes a slave into a child,
And duty into choice.
4.1k
*You should get an Abortion.
It's for the best.
Your life is a wreck,
and you shouldn't want to
invite a child into your mess.
You're eighteen and homeless.
That's too young
to deal with all of this.
You can barely keep a hold
of yourself,
A kid would just make it worse.
It's time to just accept that.*
Those words were once meant for you, mom.
But, for some reason
you didn't listen.
You ignored their logic
and chose to battle through the pain.
You didn't give up.
You fought on.
Got a car, a job, an apartment,
and a way out
of all the things that controlled you.
You didn't give up.
You knew you could be a better person,
and a worthy parent.
Because instead of being
constrained to your past
You used each mistake as a lesson
that slowly started to give you strentgh.
You didn't give up.
You believed in yourself
When no one else did,
and formed your own
path which,
inch by inch,
lead you farther from your fears
and closer to that moment
when you were able to sit
in the auditorium
and watch me graduate with the words
Thank you Jesus
ringing in the back of your head.
(I know they were)
You never gave up,
and look at us now, mom.
Look where we are.
It's a miracle.
We conquered all the odds
and ignored the logic.
Because you never gave up.
I want to be like you.
To face my trials
without any fear.
And when they tell me
to just give up.
To accept defeat.
I won't.
Because you didn't.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
My blood flows with gold
my fingers alight with fire
it propels and consumes me
to an all encompassing desire.
Completely in the wind,
utterly in the rain
A sweet abandonment
into the delightful pain.
My skin - too tight
My movements - too constrained
Even a bellow from a mountain top
leaves this feeling untamed
A power so wild
so ferocious, yet so compressed
wails at the boundaries
of the unexpressed.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
Weeaboo.
Owning this geeky word was not something I immediately understood.
Coming from a school where geeks were castaways,
with Otaku and weeb being even worse terms than that.
But now she, who loves video games, and cartoons
- a geek herself, dare I say, -
calls me a not only a weeaboo,
a term revered here,
but a failed one.
Many references I lack to see,
My circle of watched media is constrained,
me being the picky geek that I may be.
The simple act of putting on fluffy ears that I deem kawaii,
She takes as the action of a 'furry'.
I rarely see memes, something that not only geeks look at,
but social media as well,
yet she acts as though it lies within the domain of otakus.
Saying ohauyo, tadima, or even simply arigato,
gives me a snide reply of, "freaking weeb"
Making pebbles into boulders is her specialty.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
up
up
up
they did rise
the skirt lengths
in the sixties
were
up
up
high
the stock market
was in step
with the high skirt lengths
it powered
and surged
up
up
high
the outlook back then
had a light of boon
bright and positive
was the tune
fast forward to 2008
the outlook at that time wasn't too great
the stock market fell
there was an air of doom
skirts were more austere
in their length of gloom
money was tight
the hemlines more restrained
the world of finance
had become more constrained
stock exchanges
and
skirt lengths
have cyclical phases
one year
they
rise high
the next year
they're down
on a flat lining lie
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 6:17 AM UTC
In that night
there was a deeper night,
in sorrow a deeper sorrow,
in your sorrowful eyes more
more sorrowful eyes I descried,
the deep night of your eyes
as I lay beside you, your head,
then your head lying on night's
pillow, deeper than a hollow hole
filled with tender tears, as you told me
of the night, the deeper night of your life,
your hair wet with deeper tears
on night's side of your visage,
when you had to leave your son
to save yourself and him, a hurt
that still hurts, a deeper night hurt
you shared with me through deep night
sobs, deeper sobs, wetting your cheeks
and neck and night hair, the hurts,
the deeper night hurts that robbed
you of yourself and him, of how you
had to go in order to return, the sinuous
path, convoluted and constrained,
to leave the night, to come back in
the day. You knew day followed night,
but your hollow heart howled at the
rending end that began a deeper night.
All I could do was hold you in the deep,
the deeper night, and let you sob and
shake, only to awake to that brighter day.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 10:55 AM UTC
it's not even noon, but
my thoughts are drenched with
*** bound and gagged.
you're dancing around the kitchen, clad
only in a pair of
lace ******* you paid
too much for at Victoria's
Secret liaisons by the
seaside, sand sieving through your hair:
all forms of metal-backed currency taste
like ***** on your fingertips stuffed
roughly in my mouth,
call me a ****
pretty please?
promethazine slathered over
watermelon sherbert and
soaked in Sprite; put a lid on it and
shake vigorously until well mixed.
Xanax exacerbated migraines mean
naptime for me, and I forgot to tell you
the Gatorade is spiked with *****
(or maybe tequila; I've well and truly
forgotten) and all of this
is just another means of
replacing you.
you're wrapped in an
ecru trench coat,
cinched at the waist over
concealed weaponry:
unlicensed pistol and wet coral *****
constrained by a black leather holster and
cobalt cotton.
you kissed me with
******* in your nostrils and
nosebleed on your lips;
you killed me with
contempt in your mouth and
venom on your nails.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
~for Steve R. & Stephen Y.~
*"two regrets are mine -
not finding you earlier in life when...words would have carved for me a better road, and...not hand-ing you a touch, the perfect tightness-shake of one's hand reserved for fondest friends and the light press on one's back deserved for dearest brothers!"
~~~*
the light press surety of five fingers on one,
oh, what messages it composes, oh, what duty weighty it transmits
dear brothers:
tho this hands-on handoff, this fly-over, is still a
mission unaccomplished,
yet no regrets, please!
men don't overuse superlatives,
what you lovingly uncover in my rocket-verbal Mars probes,
is more telling, more revealing of who you are,
than any hand-tightness shake,
any touching grasp, could e'er convey
yet I promise, forsworn upon the cross
of the north west Pacifico latitude and longitude
a latitude that just happens to intersect
my olden, new english state,
knowing that Interstate 90
a straight transcontinental shot,
and the car keys just an impulse grab away
to tell your arms, your face, your back, our hands,
that when you love my poetry,
you love me,
you friends,
are an affirmation of Pablo Neruda's words:
***"whoever discovers who I am
discovers who you are"***
fondness is not distance constrained,
touching grasps pay no obeisance to time,
the honor of your affection permanent
affirmed and enflamed,
all mine, sublime, to lead my heart,
where to lay hands upon your back,
to realize even more
our single united rhyme
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
New mildew mania, oh man-of-war
Live by the letter, and **** for the car
The dreamers, constrained by the fog they can’t see
I uttered this song in Breakaway Alley
A wandering blonde in the restless air
Their kids, half-afraid that they’re halfway to nowhere
Think what you may, they are not in a trance
Wield what they say and you’ll find that you dance
Upon every row, lies a flag waving by
Apartment gravestones kissing up to the sky
Now, must we try so hard for fake jubilee?
The happy ones live in Breakaway Alley
In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley is on the run
All the country crows, they’ve committed a crime
Each of their wings, flapping mad out of time
To fly with such freedom yet stay so cloudbound
Cacophonous sounds fighting for our own ground
The buds only look up for leviathans
To take them to the realm they misunderstand
To pity the fool that does not try to flee
We sit on our stools in Breakaway Alley
In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley has emptied the guns
The youth do not stir at the visage of hell
There is no romance in the streets’ calling bells
And while we may treat such a threat to be shown
The dagger of a mind is dull while unknown
The ravaged pretender spoke of the Romans
His gauntlets of gold, earned from fate’s happenstance
To escape his blood, he would face down the sea
The velvet hands shook in Breakaway Alley
In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley is due to be shunned
The eye of childhood feared the forgotten paint
They lay, unencumbered, on secular saints
The falsified folly in full leopard print
The troops in their trollies with pockets of lint
The radio is silent in time’s aging vice
We hear and don’t listen, bats spliced with mice
But maybe, you will see this sweet harmony
Remember the words of Breakaway Alley
In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley has finally gone
When the baby screams for the first time, aged five
Will it lament the loss of its life?
When the kids rear for a solution wherever you go
How much will it take to say “God, I’ll never know”?
Remember the words of Breakaway Alley
It’s not all you see, it’s not simply me
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 8:31 PM UTC
The dawn was no longer coming
The earth was no longer spinning
The horizon frozen.
We had moved into the deep chill
of our lives
The deep chill of our love.
Stone cold granite silence
Dancing around each other in
slow motion rotation
eyes like arrows
eyes like mirrors
words silent daggers
breath like icicles
held and panting,
volcanic eruptions seething
beneath the surface,
choreographed
hurt and rage
posing
feigning
covering up,
boiling blood
in
this frozen silence
civil, constrained, polite.
We turned around
walked away again,
alone
again,
with nothing changed
and
nothing said.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 1:15 PM UTC
I sit disgustingly high on my throne
Looking down at those who don't share the same pigment
A sliver plate was placed in front of me at birth
On it had everything i’d ever need
Financial stability, a house, clothes
Food, parents, education, safety
My heart pumps nothing but racism through my veins
An artery of cruelty and death
I strongly believe that ‘diversity’ equals white genocide
More of them means
Less attention on me
Confederate flags litter my house
My car, my clothes
A simple reminder of the good ol’ days
Kicking them, Kidnapping them, Killing them
My life is now
Being waited on hand and foot
My every move watched
My every need taken care of
My husband
As rich and powerful as he is
Through his fragile and egotistical nature
Shows no mercy to me and my kids
I will never struggle to provide for my family
I started my life on the top of the ladder
For my skin is my privilege
Someone is lying….
If i showed you a mere glimpse of my life
And the world’s nearly unbearable
Weight on me
Would you believe it?
I carry a list of illnesses from A to Z
A suicidal uncle who no longer shares
the same air as me
Colour, race, and religion
Hold no limitations to my pain
The day in ,the day out
Cold, Suffering
I will not be constricted to
the rules set on whites
By whites
I am defined by my actions
I stand before you as I am
I am well read and independant
Fiery and calm
I walk my path with integrity pulling my head high
And shoulders back strong
I am made from my experiences
I am not constrained to my personal history
I was taught this social cancer
But surely, this can always be forgotten
For my skin is my privilege
And my privilege is being me
Jan 18, 2018
Jan 18, 2018 at 9:40 PM UTC
On Loss
We’re always losing something.
Seconds, days take some french exit.
Time quietly shuffles out the back door.
Doesn’t even say goodbye.
Once we realize
our moments are gone,
we want them back. Maybe we can replay
them and take a second look, but the record skips and the tape jumps
and the film is splotched and some teenager spilt
wine all over the keyboard
long ago;
So we jump
from memory to memory like patchwork
realizing we don’t even remember the important things.
We don’t even know why we thought what we thought.
We can’t even explain ourselves to ourselves.
Our consciousness can’t muddle through it’s own muck;
our mind doesn’t even know how the mind works.
It’s not just an existential crisis.
We lose the small things, too. We lose cellphones.
Wallets. Innocence. Virtue. We pass some
tests, we fail some tests, we replace and are replaced
we stop loving and are no longer loved,
but eventually, bigger things. Friends. Family. Lovers.
Ourselves. Our potential.
Eventually, we slip away from the most important thing.
I’ve heard a bit about death. It’s a lot like sleep. You don’t even know it’s happening.
It’s a lot like
slipping into the unconscious;
it’s a lot like putting your head down; you don’t thrash about. You see the holy gates,
maybe. Maybe you’re pulled from your body
like a handkerchief. Maybe you don’t lose anything;
maybe you get found.
If this is melancholy, I’m sorry. I’m allowed to be melancholy. Likewise, you’re are allowed to be melancholy.
You are allowed to question-
you are allowed to dance, sing, shout, cry
know, love, forget;
You are allowed to lose. You are allowed to remember. What’s stopping you?
Who’s holding you back? No floodgates; you aren’t a flood.
There’s no sweeping metaphor; no sweeping generalization. You aren’t
a path, you aren’t constrained, chained bound or gagged;
confess if you must;
drink wine if you have too;
do some metaphysical exercise; transport your mind to some realm
explode, manifest, conquer,
Prepare to lose it all. Or let it happen. It’s a choice.
If I could, I’d help you through your heartbreak. Guide you through
it all,
make you smile. Make you happy.
But I keep losing things.
I keep playing all the songs I used to enjoy.
I keep reading all the things that used to make me happy.
Moments come and go, hours gently float away
Night will wash the palate clean, clear-coat the day;
I will love, and I will hate;
I will sing, and I will dance
I will grieve, and celebrate
I will shout, and by some chance,
I cease to be.
I will not be me.
I will go somewhere;
a dark room.
Somewhere where I am safe.
Nowhere at all.
Somewhere, sometime, somehow, a vauge
mirror you cannot avoid
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
~Christi Michaels~
**Dark Shadows of My Soul
Memories finally revealed,
Yet always known.
Arches set deep within stone
Labored creake of hinges
Massive wooden doors
My breath, heavy just moments before,
quiets upon the entering.
Dark Shadows of My Soul
Three steps down,
Entering the majestic room.
Domed ceilings. Stucco stained
with colors from long, long ago.
I walk towards windows.
Tall, deep n' narrow overlooking My Realm below.
A knowing. A deep seated
rememberance of a life once lived.
Dark Shadows of My Soul
Secrets, locked away in gilded boxes..
Vessels holding unspoken truths
Trap doors leading to dungeons
concealed beneath intricately woven rugs.
Taste of the air. ****** breads,
roasting meat.
Acrid smoke wafting from Soddy hearths
Dark Shadows of My Soul
Raven ringlets cascading.
A waterfall down my open back.
Pearl woven braids
adorn the crown of my head.
My ******* constrained.
Rising...cresting
With each breath.
Brocade and lace lay gently
across my hands, kissing my fingers
My neck long, regal. I hold posture of a Princess.
My full skirts sweep and polish
these stone floors from time till eternity
Will begin the journey.
Delve into this sordid past.
Facing, long at last
Deamons. Lies of Old
Embracing now
Dark Shadows of One's Soul**
Copyright © 2014 Christi Michaels. All Rights Reserved.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
A woman is a rabbit
She lives with notions determined by her ***
Thus constrained to her Father’s or husband’s will
Hunted by the predator who hungers for her flesh
Hunts in the dark of the concrete woodland
She is forced to be silent and suffer lack of wit
Forsooth her body is a puppet by the Male hand!
She forced to wed and breed
She faces a society that would **** her
And condemn her for her free mind
Tongues of blinded minds order her to undress or cover up
She must walk like that of prey
With a keen eye over her shoulder
She must console herself to the ideas and thoughts
That one day or one night she may be killed, murdered
She must play the dumb beauty, the cow on market, the ***** on heat
She isn’t powerful, or strong, or noble
She is a Rabbit….
A Rabbit is a Woman
A creature of God made out to be cute and small
Butchered, abandoned if illness takes hold, or stomachs are gluttonous
Hunted by great beasts for Frith gave them their gift to slay!
Tortured by experiment, at the will of a child they are rejected
Forlorn by notions of uneducated fools
They hide and huddled for man is their greatest enemy
This mammal is that of prey
With a keen ear scanning the hills
Bright eyes foresee the predator that lurks
They must be silent, they must be sweet, they must breed, or food to feed
They are forced to die! Forced to live!
Abused, beaten, slaughtered, they know in any moment they could be killed
They must hide their instincts, in filthy bed holes of hutches
They are forced to succumb to disease, hardly nursed
They must be petite, they mustn’t chew, they mustn’t ****
They aren’t intelligent, or strong, or noble
They are Woman…
A Rabbit is a Woman, A Woman is a Rabbit
Both hunted, beaten, abused…
Both by society and mankind used
Both are powerful, intelligent, strong and noble
I am Woman, I am Rabbit
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 3:56 PM UTC
irreprehensible state
becomes constrained
and ridden with angst
incomprehensible dealings
with endless halls
and no ceilings
drowned out
by the sound
of silence
I cannot speak
for one must look within
to find their peace
otherwise
faced with fate
brain overload
we detonate-
forever yielding
and there;
never revealing,
it remains
lying in wait
within the maze
to take us back
from whence we came
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 4:00 PM UTC
constrained by society’s idea of a pretty picture, you weep as you cross paths with mirror glass.
you are an angel held back by your own tears.
you toss and turn through these endless days, veins choked tight by your darkest fears.
and you're whimpering in your sleep even as I lay beside you, and I’m on the brink of drifting off when your lips graze my ear with a whisper;
“how can I ever be somebody if I don’t have the right body?”
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 12:59 PM UTC