"lipsticks" poems
shoutout to the girls who have become strangers with their first kiss and held lipsticks like paintbrushes on their fingertips. I am one of you now.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
"This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did ******
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs.
She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
abundant ****** drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.
She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty,
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs
and offered them up.
In the casket displayed on satin she lay
with the undertaker's cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up putty nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn't she look pretty? everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending."
-Marge Piercy
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC
Dear society,
Stop trying to sober us up.
We’re young and bright
and beautiful and loud.
We will light up every
corner of every room
and still shine brighter
than the sun.
Stop telling us to cover up.
We will wear little black dresses
and bright red lipsticks,
leave lip-stains all over
your precious little world
and look so good doing it
that you’ll have to look away.
Stop telling us to slow down.
We live and love with so much
power and strength that we
cannot stop for you
or anyone, for that matter.
Every day is our day
and the world, our oyster.
Stop telling us we’re useless.
One day, we’re going to run the world
for you; going to be soldiers, doctors
writers, artists, speakers of the truth
and the truth is that we’re alive
and strong and here, and
you cannot control us.
From impatient, beautiful, and exuberant young girls everywhere.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
cheap liquor to ya head ya drain the substance from the bottle
With them Vicky secrets on ya body’s lookin like model
With your mind going numb its gettin so easy to swallow
all them medals on the wall were gold plated and hollow
Daddy lil princess raised inside an ivory tower
Prince charming showed up and he amazed you with his power
You gave him all your treasures he was gone within the hour
Now the sweet lies that he told got your mouth tasting sour
You singing Mirrior mirror on the wall
Who's the most tainted of them all
Your lipsticks smeared and mascara's faded
Any price to feel love baby girl you know you paid it
I met you one night and I tried to ease ya pain
But you won't touch my black skin in fear it leaves a stain
On that pretty Prada dress thats hanging off ya frame
Crown of amethyst polluting your brain
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 8:15 PM UTC
Mud is good,
Its dead good mud,
It's in me blood,
But where not understood,
Us people of mud,
In the shadow of a gas tank and born on a Mersey bank, I lived on cobbled streets dark and dank,
I played on a ship that sank, and for anything else I wouldn’t thank....... you
On king street docks, girls in cheap frocks, curly locks, time tocks, the boat rocks,
The tanyard smell made life hell for all that dwell, under the bridge,
In Garston L19, it’s the scene, its clean, it’s where I’ve been, it’s not obscene or green, if you know what I mean.
Its community security sincerity and every other word that ends with erity,
But it’s fallen apart,
Don’t lose heart.
I go into town when I’m down, it clears me frown,
I don’t go in me jarmies or me dressin gown,
There’s men with round bellies, toddlers in wellies,
Posh ladies gather in their marks and spencer swagger,
There’s scouse brow teens, sunbed queens,
Hunks and punks, lonely drunks,
Suits in boots forgetting their roots and hens in *****
Big issue sellers, statue fellas holding golf umbrellas,
Coz of all the rain,
But it’s all good, coz we come from mud,
Let’s cheer, why?
Coz I’m here,
I’m me, me names T, and me hubbys P me best friends she..... lagh,
I like coffee and toffee and Roger Mcgoughy,
I like statistics logistics eye shadow and lipsticks,
I like bags and wags and cigarette **** but not beer,
I’m fine on wine if I take me time,
I don’t do a line, unless I’m hanging me washing on it,
I work in a bar, not far, I don’t drive a car, and I don’t say Lar or kid or lad or lid or mar,
I’m proud and loud, don’t live on a cloud, and I don’t follow the crowd,
I’m a mum to some, I’ve got a big round *** but I’m me you see,
I’m not square, I dye me hair, I swear but you can take me anywhere,
Coz I care,
I’m good,
I’m mud; it’s in me blood,
Understood
By Christina Ford
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
I bent down to her ear and said
Thank you for all you’ve done
Not just for
NY
But for the World
She looked at me expressionless from her chair
I don’t think that she understood nor cared
Then I handed her a little
Bag
Containing two lipsticks
And two pencils
I think she threw the pencils on the floor and
Wondered aloud
Why was everyone giving her pencils?
She did not notice that of the two that I gave her
one was stamped in gold
With the one word
Hustler
And on the other, two
Strictly
Business
I made no suggestions nor references
I didn’t smirk
I must have appeared a bit sweet
A treacly aberration
It doesn’t matter
I had selected two perfect reds in LA
One a bit more blue
and one
a classic vampish carmine
Blood red can be a challenge even against
pale
pale
Skin.
Standing in the lift
Fully attuned
she caught me
not merely looking into her eyes
But seeing what I saw
A death’s head?
I hate when I’m caught doing that
Under the fluorescent light
She was dog rough
Pasty with sad sunken eyes
I was thrown, but by what exactly
Her magpie distress?
Her etheric calamity?
Her puffy, aging face?
We sat and spoke for a while later that night
She did not recognize me at all and apologized
maybe it was the next day
that the three of us had lunch
Everyone in good spirits
The mandrake’s screams
Forgotten with smiles and a wink
Memory bamboozled and
Make-up duly applied
She took out the lipstick
And redrew the lines
She liked the shining black case
with the little black ribbon for a pull
She told our companion sitting on a stoop
smoking cigarettes
I like your friend and
I wondered does she realize
that we already know one another?
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 3:52 PM UTC
Only the eyes remain as they were.
The rest of her face is ravaged
by acid. Acid thrown by two
boys on a cycle. Just
another dare.
She combs her long hair carefully. Plaits it
neatly away from her face. No curtain of hair
to hide behind. Puts a bindi in the battleground
of keloids, scars and uncooked skin. She wears
them well.
The boys genuflect in a temple, mothers kissing
saffron kerchief covered heads
before they gel their hair
and go on another prowl. This is what
men do, you see.
Lakshmi puts another layer
of cream on her burns and then stands
behind a beauty counter selling bindis
and lipsticks to girls with unblemished faces,
like their eyes. Like her eyes.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 4:32 AM UTC
so you say you’re a bad ***** huh
so you prefer to be identified by bad ***** instead of ur real name huh
so you prefer to be valued by money instead of your worth
so you are a bad bitch,i ain’t tryna judge you,this ain’t no court
the term “bad ***** can’t end you up as a wife
those instagram pictures wont work,you can’t put a filter on life
you were born original,now you chose to live as a copy
look colourful on the outside but your life is sloppy
the beauty of having beauty is a lot more than being beautiful
the path to life you follow isnt geting any where meaningful
so you say”love sucks,i chase paper”cus to you love is just a verb
no cure for your attitude so you take drugs and herbs(weed)
anything that has a monetary value is worthless
you used to value more but the tag”bad bitch”made you less
you are now defined by pictures of you kissing the air,
exposing you ***** and *** looking for the next prey on facebook or instgram
we follow our dreams but a responsible man wont follow a”bad ***** on twitter
so you can say,you are not any responsible man’s dream
be a bad ***** all your youth and when old a baby sitter?
you raise the stakes for yourself and still cant cross the beam
life is not rosy and even if it is,roses have thorns
those things you do will hunt you,they’ll come with horns
lipsticks,eyelashes,short gowns,expensive wrist watches and purses
money first and then back on the ground,now thats a curse
bad ******* exist amongst us,they are our friends on facebook
"prostitute"sounds bizzare so she says shez a "bad *****
the person you are still searches for the person you should be
and i hope youre eyes dont remain shut for you to see
and the younger girs see you and want to be like you
they want to dress all thight and paint their faces like you
no one wants to be like margareth thatcher
they all wanna be nickky minaj
these days there are more bad ******* than wives
and to responsible men it’s like stabs from 100 knives
because a bad ***** will follow men
but a lady will cling to a man
and if you say youre a bad ***** and you need no man
tell that to yourself when you turn 40
a lady isnt defined by how bad or ****** she is but how elegant and classy she is
a bad ***** is pretty but the beauty of a lady is defining
so choose today to be a lady and start the change for our generation!#thepoet
.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
It was two lipsticks and a secret ago
That a text message from you lit up my screen
But my phone goes off and I read your name
The boy who uses pretty words that he doesn't really mean
And my name is not plan B
But you're a tough craving to ignore
Don't you tell me I'm beautiful
The way you never did before
'Cause I hate the way you overuse
The same phrase every time we talk
And I hate the way you think you're something new
When you're just another cliché in the flock
I hate the way you cling to my mind
With the letters of your name you can spell what I'm thinking
But between your indecision and the masks you wear
I hate how I'm only pretty when you've been drinking
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
girlworm, you grab a wrist like you've known modesty in the shyness of a bare feeling gripped tight on the one offering it
tightrope fingers falling into the spaces of unspoken territory, slipping into familiar qualms like the worn lipsticks that fits the grooves of my lips like an object of my affection
knowing the contour of what i'm never aware of
anxieties creep like an overgrown lawn
these fears personifying into antsy women invading my kitchen telling me that there's not enough ventilation and the stove is on leaking gas into the baby lungs of a young smoker
and when i begin to argue they give both a look of sympathy and disgust as they say "oh child you drown so easily"
so i sit chewing my nails as i count the birds outside flying back and forth from their post as if they can't remember where they're going towards or if there's something that could possibly pull them elsewhere
my mind swirls in the smoothie of a plastic cup that sticks to the coffee table, the rings of different bottles painting circles for me to memorize again
my paradise sits with the roughness of his knuckles and the ambiguity of eyes that could know everything and i would set fire to the stars inside because of the jealousy that grows from pretty things being smoldered under skin
when i begin to lose my person, pale and shivering i go towards it
empty stomached and ready to be buried in the clothes of her
that i can imagine becoming the consistency of yogurt in my lap
kissing back my tremors as i lift up her hair from curious shoulders
dry-heaving the importance of the cheeks that feel warmer as they settle on hands that are brought together as if in deep prayer and i know i will collect myself again one day
girlworm, you're a swarm in my chest and i am me
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 11:50 PM UTC
Lipsticks, painted red
A smile on my face,
Not seen before,
Take a big swig from a bottle,
Drink more and more
Until I end up on the floor
Finally the memories are gone
When my sanity walks out the door
I'm now on the ceiling,
Though quite possibly dreaming,
My thoughts are far from clearing
In muddled moments
I find comfort and forget
No longer chained
Or to my own head in debt
Swishing the thoughts around my mind
Like a good year of
fine white wine
Spitting out the rotten ones
Swallowing down a few,
just for fun
Intoxication at its finest,
Brazen, daring, brave and bold
Leaving the past behind us
Out in the bitter cold
Frozen behind,
No longer catching up to me
I can stumble forward
In my plastered euphoria
A smile on my face
I can pick up my pace
Audacious now, I feel
Doesn't matter how much of this is real
Reality is just in my mind
Not easily defined
By dreams, nightmares or ghosts
From the past
Reality is in this bottle,
This pipe, or this needle
Down to the very last
Drops of fantasy and candy
But ****
It tastes so sweet
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
Thick glasses till high school,
Long hair done up in a pony tail,
With a lollipop between her lips
Tinted with a strawberry lip balm,
And lemon drops in her pockets,
She graduated and entered grad school.
Lenses replaced those nerdy glasses,
Siren red colored her lips instead--
Lipsticks were here to stay and reign.
Lollipops were childish, but cigarettes thrilled,
Smoked with élan, only to bring bored numbness
Behind those costly sunglasses hiding her eyes,
Set snugly into her neat brown chignon.
Little did they know, though beautiful,
She refused to led down her hair,
For her demons would go on a rampage
And her illness would devour her:
That which was kept at bay,
By anti-depressants in her pockets
A wistful dirge for her golden days.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 2:20 PM UTC
There is no doubt about it:
You have always loved me.
A leonine love.
A love that swells in the womb and the heart
From the very first twinkle in the eye.
Hit play.
Your eyes are swampish,
Mistrustful and marinated in cheap wine,
Shot through with blood, preserved in your own saltwater.
Those alligator eyes
That watch your girls,
Watch your girls board a train and draw away
Into the rest of their lives.
Leaving you stewing in twelve years’ worth of regret.
Years ago,
I used to pinch your forearms -
Watch the skin crepe up
Between my four year old fingers.
Thin blood. Tired skin.
Silently you eat your breakfast of pills and toast at the kitchen counter.
Throw in a horrid hacking cough to remind us you’re still here.
You always write everything down.
As if to tattoo it into your memory.
If you’ve locked the door behind you, it’ll be alright.
If you’ve got half a bottle left.
If you’ve left no trace on the bathroom carpet.
If you’ve woken up in the morning.
You can feel my eyes watching you.
You spend your days watching
Daytime TV, eating salad cream sandwiches and
Hit the bottle at a safe distance from noon.
Safe enough.
Your lipsticks have gone stale,
Now it’s porous skin, sweat stains, grey hair.
I find you poring over bank statements and local newspapers.
Scouring for a job, you say,
And clippings of your daughters
At school functions, clasping exam results.
You keep them in a cereal box that we covered in paint
Age five. We’re in double figures now.
I get drunk on weeknights.
Rewind.
Hold me.
Ball of flesh and screams
And you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 4:50 PM UTC
little bird
cant fly; cant fly
eyes always
looking at the sky
Never heard of a bird that can't fly
**** up lil bird
cold soup;
is all u gonna ever try
feed ur lovesick heart
lil bird
lovepotion is losing its high
oh lil bird
dont freeze wen ur parents
tumble you into this wholehell sky
dont get cold lil bird all dey want for u is to find ur own sky
bt shame lil bird ur mind has found its own neverland sky
oh lil bird ;if u could just fly
i know lil bird how u like the high
jst try; just try
ur siblings are shouting from the sky
u watch them lil bird with awe inspiring sigh;
and u turn your face lil bird
coz u cant face d lack of same love u find in their eyes
are u not trying lil bird???? tell me or have u jst glued your
eyes to the sky
fear lil bird has it turned you to
a box of ice and u keep looking for fire to turn you from cold to nice
in the night ; hiding in the shadows comes ur fight
keep fighting lil bird searching for dat thing dat destroyed you
from the start
an enemy so variant even u wont recognize no one sees it lil bird
but u know lil bird how it is dat u hav to fight keep fighting fight fight fight fight fight fight fight..........
u laugh lil bird ...about how u thought once dat ppl were so high now u see them in the real light
dey got blood on their lips lil bird fools think that smearing lipsticks can make it hide
but in the same light can u see urslf too lil bird
******* off of ppls love to make u high
oh sick lil bird how is ur idealism
love is your drug; yellow avian
and u want it unadulterated even more than your diet
even a slight impurity; u r spinning out of sight
stop dreaming lil bird come back from d neverland sky
maybe dey r jst ppl
and maybe dey r jst trying to survive
even with blood on their lips
and even with a foot that has
never touched a shoe for life.
so come lil bird come down from the neverland sky
they will never know how it feels to see the world , and want to change everything from left to right, to see someone in pain and get their own heart ripped apart
or how a song can make someone feel alive
and how when you watch a movie and for a day become the character u like
funny lil bird how u remind me ....
and when you want ppl to understand you without words.....
watever lil bird jst come down from d neverland skies
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
Red – the colors match underneath
the mashing of trashed feet. A bittersweet
scent swishes around our soft palates
until intoxication renders us useless.
The artificial artisan could’ve gone lighter,
but she knew it wouldn’t have been as
beautiful. I gasp and gaze, looking for the
fake signs that she had felt the same.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
The policeman strides the concrete,
some poisoned daffodil
in his stage boots of tread and leather
and fear of authority.
Troll-like he emerges over the sound
of the head-dressed busker,
her simple song, her trio of chords
singing under the shops,
who despise her art.
And I, against the tide of footfalls
and ‘aww’s’ at the latest range
of lipsticks and daily distractions,
I stop to watch as her will falls limp.
Her squeezebox is strangled of sound,
and the music dies at the order
of an order, the noise pollution
of the High Street’s mating call.
Chair folded, she evacuates through
the traffic fumes, ‘cross the road,
and with hope, with fingers crossed
and eyes wet, I hope this is a retreat
and not a surrender.
Once more he strides the concrete,
his fluorescent jaundice coat
a warning, a reminder, and I see
his eyes mouth the words:
‘Your license please,’ he says to her,
‘your paper proof of your right to play.
What profit plan do you have in place
and who approved your name?’
‘You can’t call yourself a busker’, he says,
‘much less an artist or work of art,
which talent show do you hope to enter,
to validate your part?’
‘Your part in this wholesome land,’ he says,
‘how you do your bit, your profits large,
because our economy is going asunder,
and so we have no time for art.’
‘So it’s with no due regret,’ he says,
‘that I’ll send you on your way.
And if with you goes the death of music,
well that’s just progress made.’
And so I walked away from this scene of
deflowered and purpled hope,
my stomach wrought with injustice
and no nicotine in tow.
And it is to this table I am sat,
with just one vocation upon my mind;
to reclaim her song, now sung in silence,
and steel her memory in time.
And it is to this table I am sat,
with everything on my mind,
to tell of what I’ve seen,
to indulge another rhyme:
Sing to me your sorrow,
sing unto the skies,
play to me your pleasantries
and please purge me of my lies.
Pay us with your sorry tune,
pay us with your life,
all your forsaken childhood dreams,
your faded hopes and strife.
And please,
bathe me in this sunlight,
and bathe me in time,
scour me with city streets
and allow me what is mine.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 8:55 AM UTC
It’s New Year’s Eve.
Cue the colorful ads all around the neighborhood, on park benches and random building pillars, and the commercials of that big city countdown in the middle of town. Cold winter snowflakes still on palms of those trudging through the layers of snow on the streets. The day stretches into the night as half the city prepares for that special midnight moment. Lipsticks applied and makeup spilled, dresses snatched from the stores and shoes grabbed from their shelves. As the hour draws near, everyone is gathered, waiting for the party to begin.
Lights are turned up, adrenaline is rushed, people are hyped and lives are being restored in their dead bodies.
Cheerful voices of the hosts fill the air, and a band plays in the background. Instruments contributing to the life of the party.
11:59 P.M.
Timers are set and cameras are ready.
10
9
8
7
6
5
4
3
2…
1!
Sky flowers cover the stars in a burst of sparks, and the sound of cameras snapping photos can be heard among the crying and screaming.
Lips are locked, embraces are warm and photos are Instragram-ed.
The night is young and hearts are joyful.
Such is the beauty of this one night.
(lunarlullubies)
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
In my head
I imagine the future to be
Lipsticks lined on a marble counter
According to color and mood
And clothes warm from the dryer
Because they didn’t cool in the car
And heartbeats under bedsheets
Imported from Milan
Where no clothes are scattered
Because we always remember
To hang them, properly,
(The way we’re supposed to).
And in my head
You wear a sweater
And I brew tea
In an electric kettle
On a spotless counter
In a kitchen scrubbed clean
Except on the stove
Where a smudge of chocolate
Here and there
Reminds us of
The night before
And you see me clearly
With curious eyes
And I see you exactly as I did
When we first met
On our third date
When you asked me
If I would, please, finish your plate.
And I imagine the future
And I adore the order
The absence of terrifying smudges
Of chaos
Against a marble façade of
Rosy (or pink. or sparkle.) perfection.
I crave the
Nights spread over soft, warm sheets
That I call mine
And warm lips that wake me
Only when the sun is just right
So I see the mischievous sparkle
In your half-closed eyes
Before you tickle me awake.
And in my head
I long for this,
For the perfection of a
Practiced hand.
I want to build myself
Like my mind builds worlds
With one smooth stroke at a time.
But I do admit
As I lay in jersey sheets
That I do quite like
The way the soft lamplight
Falls over my cluttered bedspread
And how my books are stacked
One
Two
Three
Against my bookshelf
Rather than inside it
(The way it’s supposed to.)
And I am fond
Of the sheer lavender cloth
Thrown haphazardly on the lampshade
And tied with a purple cord
From a graduation I can’t clearly remember
And have every desire to completely forget.
And I will rise
On an overcast day
To the cold lips of sea air
On sheets made from
Recycled materials
And I will stand on aching bones and trod
With a limp and a frown
To the stovetop kettle
And I will brew tea
To the gentle hum of the fridge
That was here when I moved in
And I will be wearing
A robe with no cord
And a face with no grin
But I will look to the sky
And see the sun promised in the
Nebulous lining of the silver clouds above
And I will smile and
Stretch my arms
And see myself clearly
With selfish, curious eyes
Amid the ***** pots and pans and I
Will find peace
In chaos.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
When we were young, we went DYU in
Lipsticks and jumpsuits and gulped
Chamomile tea on table one, our hot spot.
Now that Eapen is here, I want to go
Back to those Bangalore days with my-
Ladies, diapers and a pair of baby socks.
Tim, time, time! Stop, stop, stop!
This is the moment, the moment from
Our yester imaginings, Eapen our baby drug
Let's get back to those hostel rooms,
Jumpsuits and lipsticks with 'the nucleus' on our shoulders.
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
writing a poem (on my iPod: feels like cheating)
while greyhounding back homeward---
(weekend red stripes in guelph & waterloo)
it hasn't much t'do with anything,
save perhaps this mournful banjo
in my ear and grey toronto
and the plateglass houses of the
great rich masses set back on
manicured hills. . .
. . . it is overcast again
---tho t'always is on busfilled
travel sundays---
when you've nothing else to do but
leave all the weekend's joy in the dusts.
preachers screamin' in fastidious belled churches
while my head splits (from th'very thought)
and O the women i leave behind!
the tight snaky barworn dresses,
smudges (lipsticks)
on ***** cranberries ...
ah! (ah!)
all the numbers and names half-collected,
waiting for next trip down
---or maybe just black oblivion.
. . .
but enough of cloudy thoughts!
i have Spring and all (WCW)
waiting in the pack &
afterall
... poetry
is the only thing of any importance.
the gardens of bedroom bliss
the freckled map of womankind
the rippling cascade of golden hair
must wait...
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 6:37 PM UTC
This antique mirror boosts no confidence. Concave
reveals its magic tricks with an incurvate
red surface. Some human hair
blending braids are there to fancify your boxers, your removable
metallic silver suspenders underwear and
her red bra underwire slips. It is a new style.
I feel anguish, when I touch the pull locks. Her picture
of the antique statue is hidden between all those things. She
enters the mirror to kiss you every time you look at it. Like jelly candies
are her lipsticks on that silver, but
they have different taste. For me,
they look like isoquants, or indifference curves. I want
to leave you. What do you think?
The water that drips from the mirror, when I wash it, is like crimsonblood. Scary
optical illusions split the reality into two variants through my woe,
and create a much looser and less direct relationship
between us than ever. You live for
your comfort and versatility. You cannot change it.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:32 AM UTC
My mom was angry
My sister didn't understand
Thought I was insane for spending that much
On a tiny bottle of foundation
But what they don't realize is
This bottle of heavy duty
Full coverage
Long lasting
Foundation
Gives me confidence to wear my hair back
Out of my face
Bright lipsticks
Dramatic eyeliner
And not feel like I want to die
And that is
Priceless
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
Hearty laughter and untamed voices,
Bright red lipsticks and brazen choices,
Bold heels studded with some virtues-some vices,
Tongues laden with sharp, unabashed spices
Go out and out, and be proud, women,
The time is right, to be loud, women!
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 8:22 AM UTC
The girlchild was born as usual,
But detested dolls that did *** ***
Made music with her miniature GE stoves and irons,
And crushed her wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy,
Then, in the rabble of puberty, a classmate said,
"You have a great big nose, and fat legs."
She was healthy, tested intelligent,
Possessed strong arms and back,
abundant ****** drive and manual dexterity,
She ran to and fro, not caring,
Who saw a fat nose on thick legs,
She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty,
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle,
But her strength refused to wear out,
Did not run out on her,
Like some men did,
Who only saw a fat nose on thick legs,
She refused satin in her casket,
She would have no undertaker paint her silly,
With her strong nose and thick legs,
Dressed ever as plainly,
'She was beautiful,' those who knew her said,
Those who did not, could not understand,
That she was no Barbie Doll,
But a woman with a happy end.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 11:47 AM UTC