"estrogen" poems
Estrogen swimming,
Testosterone pumping,
Basically just another excuse for teens to drink alcohol and smoke ****
But **** if you get laid… props.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
This trail leads to the animal crossing
It fails to accommodate intrepid adventurers,
Bushy tailed explorers, mountain climbers,
Talkers to squirrels and chewers of pine pitch.
The divine medicine denies us the headspace to believe we're really dead,
The reclined estrogen felt good against twenty million years of insecurity
Golden-layered, factually flawed
It lay exposed for decades
Rusting innards and misfiring sparks
None of the heavy equipment does what it says
Robot arms move with intensity
No programmer yet programs tenderness
The limiting factor has always attracted the acting crowd
Always desperate for theatrical work they magically appear
When it's clear that they're needed
But heed the warnings, they're known to be cheaters; the people who say so could also be wife-beaters
No need to wait for a stereotype
Follow the one you haven't lost touch with
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC
I've got a **** right there between my legs
It hangs and grows like another ***** might
It's a shame the reality goes over your head
I **** sometimes like a **** truck punching
On all cylinders, I **** sometimes lying
With legs open wanting and exposed
I've got a **** right there between my legs
It hangs and grows like any **** does
It's a shame reality goes right over your head
I altered my consciousness.
I altered my brain.
I altered my hormones.
My testosterone's gone.
My estrogen's over ******* full.
Call me what you want but
My experience is beyond.
Beyond.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
I need a
hair cut delilah
and a shave- but ephedrine?
endocrine? disorder
and testosterone soars
I am what chemical?
what neurological miracles?
an infamy
in synapse symphonies....
a biological fool,
short wired fused-
refused the complex misfire
when estrogen fuss
messes with my desires.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
Ex's
I am a part of all of them
even the ones I hate.
Maybe especially the ones I hate.
They are transferred paint
after the fender ******
at the unfortunate intersection
of fate and bad timing.
Not enough damage to make a difference.
Not even enough impression that
you care to be bothered changing your schedule
to repair it.
But every time you leave the house,
and on every lap around the chariot,
you see a trespassing color screaming
of either their bad decision.........or yours.
Sometimes it seems there are more accidents
than pleasant Sunday drives.
I suppose most encounters must be accidents
until we find the uncluttered road to our destiny.
L.E. was life shift
and napkins.
I didn't even know I needed napkins
when I had paper towels in the house.
I Jones for napkins these days.
D.B. was college
and fashion.
Shiny shoes moved her to the soul of my feet.
Now Kiwi polish
smells like foreplay to me.
N.R. was forbidden
and my piano teacher.
I hated practice, she loved to kiss
The oral exam was one of my best finals.
I like tests more than most people today.
J.T. was a cougar
and Tchaikovsky connoisseur.
Maturity was uncovered, along with adult lessons
about carpet knap and fireplaces.
I am Pavlov's dog in the strings of Symphony #6.
L.J. was adventure
and abandon.
She is a grassy carpet over a live train tunnel
in a memory I should regret, but don't.
She is the crossbeam in my permanent smile.
I am an estrogen inspired creation
finding purpose in soft fleshy motivation.
I am who I am
because of their compunctions and compulsions.
They scraped off on me
in the kamikaze journey to fight loneliness.
But in the dive I learned -
grace is humbling when you don't deserve it,
toilet paper has a perfect delivery direction,
I get the right side of the bed,
you shouldn't say anything
you don't want to hear again,
it's my job to take out the trash,
shutting your mouth sooner than you think
is almost always the better choice,
you can never have enough closet space,
and some experiences are so good
that you should never try to repeat them again.
She may be gone forever.
And we may not be able to have
a decent conversation for the rest of our lives.
But God knows
I'll always have napkins.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
I tried not to look at it,
But I couldn't help myself,
The blue sky burying me completely,
The sun shedding visibility
On the edible chanterelles--
Little fungi, little mold spores
Treated as food, soft and porous
Sponges, fragile like egg shells.
We hunt for the orange gleam
Showing through the duff
As if we are savages,
Lost in our search,
Forgetting our state.
I'd forgotten what a sight they were:
Unfunny clowns always having
Arguments over who gets what space--
Quality family time.
Every home is a miniature dictatorship.
Now, savages rule our thoughts
And actions; they fight
For control; they
Pump Estrogen into our
System so that we
Will not fight back.
The dream is not a dream.
The Police are a privilege
For those who can buy it.
All this was a week after
The dust settled. There was no music.
Even the chants of Buddhists
Were silenced, the replacing hum
One of screams
And gunshots.
The sound of
Your enemies being sautéed
Is what loss truly is:
Accounts holding our Humanity
Have been depleted.
The only unclosed door
Leads to Egypt.
When I think of it now,
What I remember is
Debt. Once, I saw
A college student
Buying cheap ramen
With a grin.
And, in a dream once,
There was no sound,
No color. Everything
Was the same—taste,
Touch, smell. Red lipstick marks
On a shirt would not
Remain. And hippies,
With their tie-dye clothes
Were just working stiffs,
Looking out a window
To see
Brick and mortar.
They say,
“This is your police state.
This is your Haunted House,
Your personal Winchester House
With no exits. This is
Your nightmare,
Your stench.
These are your maggots in your eyes.
This is what you want.”
We listen.
I do not want to be
The kind of person
Who makes it okay
To want to die.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 6:48 PM UTC
You gotta be kidding me Ms. Ogyny
That's why you hate yourself?
Because your have ******* and a ******
You find it the most unforgivable sin
To be plagued by estrogen
Tell me Ms. Anthropic since we're on the topic
Why do you despise human kind?
What about them troubles your mind?
You think they're disgusting and not to be trusted
Someone or something made you this way, it must of
Life, life oh deadly life
It plays by the rules of day and night
I just wanna feel alive
And know, just know I'm doing right
But right alongside that feeling
There are times when I wanna die
I wanna be under the ground and sleep forever
There are time when I feel like that'd be better
So Ms. Ogyny I guess I see
Why you hate yourself because I hate me
I hate myself more than anyone else
I'm just a notch on Ms. Fortune's belt
Or maybe I'm just the welt
So Ms. Anthropic, I guess I'll drop it
Because I get where you're coming from
People are cruel, ill-mannered and inexplicably dumb
And from this cold hard fact I've become numb
I cannot wait for Kingdom Come
And I Mr. Fyde, wish I would die
Because now I realize how much I hate my life
I suffer from incredible self-dislike
The pain is obvious from the outside
And I say my goodbyes as I commit suicide
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
Gripping dark leaded pencils
with tips as sharp as the razors
estrogen slit their wrists with.
Mischief produced
due to the size this heart
has been reduced to,
and deduce that she left
after growing weary
of the same being she's seduced.
Serotonin levels low.
Drugs will bring them up,
and perhaps under their
influence this [derelict]
will encounter the verb ****
Endless void of
disappointments have
left him poignant, causing
an appointment to sell souls
to fictional individuals.
Admire the horizon while
he's wasting time rhyming.
Crying to keep haunting
spirits alive and using them in
literature in pitiful attempts to thrive,
simply to leave the entire world who's
abandoned him behind.
27 club. Second attempt
at having [conversations] with death.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 7:35 PM UTC
i say that i am
"so done with estrogen"
you might not understand
im tired of the stretch marks
on these sacred double D's
tired of all the boys
who don't take me seriously
im tired of the looks
when i wear a shirt that's deemed too low
im tired of the acne
my young teenage skin shows
im tired that i hate you
and that we can't be close
because you are my mother
it should not be so.
im sorry that i was up at two am
and cried because i have no friends
blame it on my ***
or whatever you would like
im sorry that it happened, just another part of teenage life
im tired of not being able to walk home by myself
because i'm "fragile," and it's dangerous
im tired that i can't be tall
because i have no *****
and being ashamed of my physical traits
when i really have no reason
im tired of putting on makeup
whenever i go out
using dyed red chemicals
to perfect my pout
im tired of being paid less
than my male counterpart
and being stopped by a glass ceiling
when i try to work
im sorry that im here
i know that i should be at home
caring for some children, or talking on the phone
i just had to tell you
that there's meaning behind my words
when i say that im "so done with estrogen"
im really saying much more
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
There is thunder in my ******
from my ****** falls her monthly rain –
I like being a girl, but I hate being a woman.
This is what all of us say:
give me estrogen but not too much.
give me the babies but don’t make it hurt.
And all their milk is store-bought.
April 25th, 2006.
Judgment day, in white pants
I give orange pulp to everyone –
the Sixteenth Century has me by the ovaries.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
Lets address whats evident
In this room There's an Elephant.
Why do you see us as being irrelevant.
Just because our skin was kissed with melanin
Mixed in with the protien of Keratin
They slapped us with a label of being African American.
Yet we are descendants from one of the 12 tribes of Israel: Juah, Ephraim, Manasseh, Naphtali, Levi, Asher, Issachar, Gad, Zebulun, Reuben, Simeon, and Benjamin
We were taught to be Nurturing and feminine
Because we were raised to be young ladies, due to our body producing high levels of estrogen.
We are sweet like sugar but can be spicy like cinnamon.
We have an Aroma of shea butter, coconut, and honey
We are enlighten with wisdom, so we are far from a dummy.
We cant be bought be bought with your worldly money.
Even on a dark day you would think its sunny
Because our souls are so divine
that it's reflection from the inside will brighten the world like the The moon in the midnight's sky that shines.
We are Unashamed.
We can not be tamed
Inside us lies a firery passionate buring flame.
We have a Hebrew name.
We are not the same,
We are individually different and one of a kind.
We have a beautiful mind.
We are fruitful like ripen Grapes growing ravashingly on the branches from vine.
We age like fine wine.
We are not to be treated as devalued change such as quarters, pennies, nickles and dimes.
Our voices are delightfullly sweet just as the peaceful sound of musical wind chimes.
We tell stories through our dancing, words, paintings, songs, poems, verses, rhythms and rhymes.
We dont need makeup to cover up a blemish
Its just a sign that we have flaws and God's not finished.
The power of Yah flows from us graciously.
For Our beauty comes naturally.
Our souls are birth from the heavenly.
We speak Pleasantly.
Some have a complexion of Maghony.
But My skin tone is Vanilla bean
I get high off life like caffeine
I glisten like afro sheen.
I am a Hebrew Queen.
Thru the untrained eye my future cant be seen
The Most High is listening,
Shaping, and our futures he's creating.
We Seek Yahwehs face for insight
Going through a transformation to get our souls right.
Taking a journey to new heights.
We are stand out like highlights
Shining in the world of darkness like flashlights.
And Yeshua Hamashiach has our copyrights
We say it out Loud
We are Hebrew and We are proud!
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 8:32 PM UTC
once a month estrogen teaches girls the
meaning of happiness
by feeding them to the darkness of their own imagination.
once a month i see my incompleteness manifesting as physical imperfection
staring
staring me down at my ugly claw feet my jiggly thighs my soft stomach my mammoth arms my swollen eyes my misshapen eyebrows my thinning hair
even my fingernails,
the shape of my fingers all wrong
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
Your embrace, like being pressed against a
fridge door
Painful, but I couldn't rub the pain
in public, but endure it as I walked away
through the silent quad
Your goofy smile as I gave you
your birthday present last year
when there was that heat
And when I touched your heart like your mother once did
and you tried to hide, but couldn't resist
You are coming
Looming large
Coming yes, with your newest girlfriend
They come and go and come again, swirling around you
backs arched, hands splaying as they reveal their inner thoughts to your
rapt attention, cross their legs, uncross them, flip their estrogen hair,
your little subordinate girlfriends
What pleasures you could have if only...
You come to judge me, with your eyes and hers.
Your eyes I used to watch, but now you avert most times
You must maintain your detachment and judge me and
converse about me with her, as you "mentor" her
Meld with her. It must be a palpable connection between your center
and hers. Teach her how to think like you, feel you, be a part of you
Let her accept you into her
And me, up there, trying to impress both of you
to keep my job
to save my apartment, my unpaid bills, my cats
my dented car, my anti-depressant pills, my life sans
trifles, but deep and thoroughly lived
I am a slave dancer, unclothed and unprotected, but skilled and
nothing can take that away from me, not even you
As you will not look at me, only at your little electronic pad and at her,
As she sees me perform for the first time
and she won't have any idea that I was once in her place
and you were not detached
And I can only hope, that through it all, my skill
will prevail
And you, now detached little man
That I mourn, will keep me at my job
And sad as I will be to watch you watch me
and feel the energy between you both, as I
an experimental animal under a scientists eye
As I am there, and she is next to you
I still hope you stay detached and
let me keep my job and
I will be free forever.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 10:17 PM UTC
LAUREL AND THE MARE
It was spring and Southern Ontario air tasted of trees.
A pregnant mare escaped to the woods from her prison on the estrogen farm.
She had long, curled hooves and cracked skin.
She came to Laurel and her two children at the edge of Beamsville.
Laurel had no work, a jumble of painted canvasses in the porch, her father's
Hired man's stucco cottage. Laurel, Hadley, Malcolm wore ski jackets and jeans.
The horse loved to exercise at night in the yard.
They combed her and gave her oats. They couldn't afford a vet so they
Called a farrier horse dentist and she fixed the skin and hooves and filed the teeth.
They hung a trouble light on a nail and talked to the horse at night.
The farm smelled of animal again: you know the power of grass breath.
They read library horse books and what's left of the family
Sang with the radio in the barn. Those might have been holy days,
They were feast days, and the children were pulled away from
American television by the strong and willing horse.
Torn French bread and good cheap Beamsville Magnotta wine on the picnic table,
Wine for the children, too, and they all read in their beds after dark.
Laurel went to bed thinking: "It's La Vie Boheme for us."
She gloated at the return of ******
Feeling and the possibility of love and laughed her
Coarse, sweet, hee-haw laugh.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
This poem was published in Canadian Poetry
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
i am not firm
and we are not like-minded
and maybe we are wrong
or care just right
you are not merciful
you are angry
and vengeful
and appreciative
at the wrong moments
and so curious
with the wrong questions
and i am not patient
but am ill tempered
and am made of estrogen
and progesterin
and every night at 7pm
7:05 7:23
i release more
and want to cry alot
we are bad breath in the morning
and secret geatures and pet names
and we are bread and soy
and lazy individuals
and i need hugs
and you need me
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
She floats above my life with hidden purpose
Casting glances over her pearl white shoulder
Occasionally
To see if I've noticed
To see if I've fallen for the ruse
Taken the bait
Given in to the pursuit.
She knows I want her.
She's aware of my need.
It shines in my scent,
My wounded trail.
She floats above my life daintily
With estrogen seeping
Wiggling and shadow-boxing with my heart
Casting her lures,
Fly fishing,
Teasing me from my mud-sucking existance
Only to snag me
Razor barb hook tearing through the soft tender meat of my soul
She checks me out and tosses me back
And as I sink into the murky depths of my maleness
I cry out
"Try again! Size isn't everything!"
But she cannot hear me above the whir of her own motor.
And she trawls to another pond.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 3:15 PM UTC
in someone's house, there's a photograph
it's framed by the front door, almost on display
it's there for visitors to see and believe
and I'm not quite sure how they fall for it.
in the photo is a happy family
a daughter, a mom, and a dad
all smiling and loving and caring and happy.
they see cheery, normal people.
hey deceived they must feel.
but the girl? she was a boy.
she was he who wasn't himself.
he was confined to a body of all pink and bursting with estrogen
he was she who was he who was trapped
and his father hated him.
yelling and shouting "christina! christina!"
tears falling like dumbbells on unsuspecting toes
"chris! chris!" he'd yell back
but only in his brain
because the daddy-daughter dances
had already been attended.
bruises from beatings that couldn't be healed
but the happy photo still hung in the hall
and even as chris watched the rings go
from left hands to right he still hid behind
that perfect, happy family.
and the people failed to see through it.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 2:24 AM UTC
"Helen, the radiance of women..." - Homer
Had Helen of Troy been a modern American woman,
she would have checked her email, called her boss,
updated her Facebook page, looked at her calendar,
gone to the gym and talked with her therapist
before running away with Paris.
She would also have consulted her girlfriends
to determine if he was really that into her
and examined a bevy of relationship
self-help books just to make sure.
Certainly, she would have googled him,
had a friend perform a credit check,
and demanded an STD clearance from his doctor.
When the ships and soldiers arrived
to redeem her honor and rescue her,
she would have told them in a huff
that she was an independent woman
quite capable of taking care of herself
and didn't need the help of any men,
before stepping over the dead male bodies
and accepting a free ride home.
Later she would write a wildly popular
estrogen drenched memoir about her trials
filled with spiritual advice, travel notes and recipes.
Paris, of course, would be conveniently dead.
Some stories do not improve when updated.
- mce
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
Succulent soup, translucent tongue
Picture my original kiss
Comfort when the glass is bitter
But is it good, or was it this?
Prisoner of his unctuous voice
Almost once above the mushroom
Symbol in an empty kitchen
I never liked to lick that treacle
Cunning-you-osity killed the clam
Hot steamy death, I chew, I am
Moist and tender, deep and raw
Bleeding, throbbing smoky noir
Groaning, moaning breathless sighs
Parted lips and open thighs
Estrogen's a troubled dish
Tastes like chicken, smells like fish
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 7:37 AM UTC
white albatross, these white
coats fluttering. only here
to fill up a paper cup--
now, go shower
the cold water stings
like hail on jupiter
I manage this.
O albatross
naked, abject,
look at this wretch
dose me and love me
with your wings spread
heal me now
with your sharp nose and
sleeked back hair
languid, cot, albatross.
a fox den of estrogen
sound the trumpets,
a grand fanfare,
I manage this.
yellowed and maroon
blood testing room
little *****
flutter your coats O
Albatross
lock the door
close the blinds
and step quietly, for
my blood boils
differently than you,
I hunch like a vulture,
ceased, no prey
O, albatross
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 5:38 AM UTC
A soft, gentle warmth
A touch of pillowy, overly perfumed femininity
Suffocating me into serenity
Quick, slender fingers
Bandaging my every move
Warning me against standing in the rain
And quick fingers slipped under my skin
Small, frail waist
Brushes against me as we dance
And I am pulled closer reluctantly
Into estrogen and ecstasy
Full, colorful lips
That would drive anyone else crazy
But they just seem to spit the most horrid things ever said
And they seem to sentence me
(Under the blissful vow of marriage)
To a life of torture and conviction
Underneath a piercing gaze...
I would rather die.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
Jun 1, 2019
Jun 1, 2019 at 11:30 PM UTC
she doesn’t let me drink
and insists
that I listen to her
insists with
a viciousness
“It’s because you work night shifts,”
she says.
“What’s that got to do with drinking
while I’m free?”
“Alcohol lowers a man’s testosterone level
and increases estrogen. Why
don’t you know that? You
need to take better care of
yourself.”
she made for me a diet with
rice and garlic
calls me while on the night shift
and tells me to go into the bathroom
and jump 100 times
and do stretching exercises,
tells me to drink more water
She even buys me bags of nuts and seeds
and tells me to eat between the meals
“No sugar,” she says. “No, not even in
coffee. Pure black or nothing.”
she even bought me a
hand grip strengthener with adjustable resistance
to use while I’m in the office
she encouraged me to eat
raw eggs but stopped when
I told her that you can get salmonella like that
when I came home from work
one evening at 23:36
I ate my rice with garlic
and she asked if I wanted anything else
and I said “Yeah, a beer.”
“Okay,” she said. Went into the kitchen
came back fifteen minutes later with
a cup of tea and a lemon
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Ginger tea. It’s better with lemon. Should
I squeeze it for you?”
“No thanks, I’ll do it myself.” I cut the
lemon in half and squeezed it into the cup
It was the nectar of gods
and I didn’t
hesitate to tell her
so
“All right then,” she said. “Drink it all, rinse
with water before brushing your teeth
and then come to bed.”
I did all that and went to bed
and she wanted me to sleep
because lack
of sleep is the worst
enemy of a man’s testosterone levels
Nov 4, 2019
Nov 4, 2019 at 6:17 PM UTC
my legs are unshaven
somewhere between rabbit and goat
my thighs are muscled
more so now than ever
my face is freckled proportionally
with just the right amount of jawline
my feet are bony, like my hands,
long and strong
my torso melts into my legs and shoulders
my whole body is masculine
everything I am is built and molded
my heart is a knight, sun, yang
I dream of rocketing my person over obstacles
like someone who is not bound by estrogen
and having my abs ripple as I tear my
shirt off
grabbing it from the top of the back rather than
the awkward twisting thing
I am a man masquerading in a woman's body
admittedly, a tall, masculine-looking woman
but it still feels like it doesn't fit
like a temporary home
that was painted without you knowing
and everything shifted over to the left
three inches
and you know something is not right,
and I'm looking around, asking,
where are my wings?
where is my golden curly hair?
where is the fire in my eyes?
where is the easy athletic ability?
where is my old body?
why am I here?
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
all humans think they are the ******* ****
like we think elevated thoughts that trip across moonbeams
drift on clouds laced with estrogen and ******* sunshine
like we steer their course
when in reality
our elevation has nothing to do with the brevity of our infantile thought processes
that we believe are unique and something for others to wonder at
it's been ******* done before
someone already wrote a better poem about it, too.
don't stand on my shoulders and point out all the **** i can't see from down here
things unseen still exist
i'm not a tourist
in a poetic world you created
full of bleeding wrists and antidepressants
******* tell it how it is
don't elaborate
or don't
say anything
at
all
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
Boys don't cry...
I feel so small and like I will never be who I want to be.
I feel like this body isn't mine but I am stuck in this body and it keeps crushing the little hope I have left.
It is like an iron grip in my chest choking out words I don't mean to say.
Boys don't cry...
I feel like an insignificant part compared to everyone else.
To the one's that get their Top surgery, get the Estrogen blockers, and get the Testosterone.
I feel like nothing will become of my transition to male.
I feel as if no one will care and I will be left alone.
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 2:47 PM UTC