axr Oct 2014
Dear men,
You are not emasculated when you are gentle to a woman.
You are not emasculated when you can't control your child's behaviour
You are not emasculated when you get a vasectomy done
You are not emasculated when you stand up for a woman, no matter how old she is.
You are not emasculated when you support gender equality.
You are not emasculated when you choose to not drink and drive
You are not emasculated when your lifestyle choices are different from that of your friends.

I am a feminist who believes that man and woman have equal roles in the society.

If you think women are weaker,  I fail to comprehend you and I m not going to waste my time explaining you the basics of how to be peaceful and respecting one another.

Sincerely,
Someone who wants a change, and is doing their part in it.
Rant + telling people to not be douchebags
Hannah Holliday Aug 2014
Boobs are not sexual
They are meant to give a baby it's milk
Not make some horny man hard
They shouldn't be plastered in magazines
The women's body is a work of art
it should be treated like one.
SøułSurvivør Feb 2015
~~♥~~

I used to think men
should be more like books
Both you cannot
judge by looks...

If I didn't want to finish reading
I put it down... no heart was bleeding

A book will never fuss or fight
It will stay with you
through the night...

It doesn't smoke. It doesn't drink.
It won't leave toothpaste
in the sink!

It doesn't binge... it doesn't eat...
It won't leave up the toilet seat!

It doesn't forget. It doesn't mope.
It won't hog the TV remote!

It doesn't have to have
The last say...
It doesn't have legs

to walk away.

But it's not soft. It isn't warm.
It doesn't keep you
safe from harm.

Even though it makes no fuss
It can't think. It can't discuss.

Even though it has its charms
it can't hold you in its arms.

It doesn't pine. It doesn't miss.
It can't hug and it can't kiss.

So now I think on it again...
... I think BOOKS should be
             more like MEN!!!



SoulSurvivor
2/20/2015
~~♥~~
Feathers Scott May 2016
sometimes when i'm asleep i hear whispers.

ghosts of all the men i let decimate my sanctuary

thinking they came to worship.

the men who came with flowers,

fragrances and exquisite offerings

who left with my sobriety.

many pieces of me are

somewhere in the world

being given as bounty to other women

expecting to be loved as i did.
Mistah Kurtz—he dead.

      A penny for the Old Guy

      I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

      II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

      III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

      IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

      V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
                                Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
Trey Evans Nov 2014
The problem with falling for a woman
Questioning her strength to catch you
Or maybe you fall on purpose
To catch a glance under her dress

Either thin, tall and lean
Thick, short and curvy
Any shape, any size
The female gender can make you insane

The very thought of a nude goddess
Brings the mightiest of men to their knees
This briefly entails without question
The power a vagina can hold

Simple like exotic dancers
Complex like business CEOs
No matter the background she withholds
You can never figure a woman out

A tale as old as time
A riddle still not solved
But yet how could Adam have made it
Without Eve?
written 12/5/12
Natalie Clark Jan 2014
I'm a MAN.

A rugby-playing,
Football-loving,
Pie-eating
MAN.

A nerdy t-shirt wearing,
Glasses bearing,
Bad-teeth faring
MAN.

A sad,
Lonely,
Little
MAN.

A nice-dressing,
Debonair-looking,
Smooth-talking
MAN.

A rose-giving,
Hotel-whisking,
Loving and kissing
MAN.

A drunk,
A lush,
An alcy
MAN.

A person with
Thoughts
Feelings
Pain
Sentiment
I like stuff
I hide my feelings
I fuck up

I cry.
An exercise in the male perspective.
Hollow Jun 2014
No man
Can plug holes
In this dyke
elizabeth Jun 2014
We were barely teens together
and now we're barely sober
on opposite sides of the country

I see photos of her,
sparking thoughts I wish I could erase

She gained so much weight,
I wonder what happened,
She used to look so good


In my critical analysis of her figure
(I could earn a PhD in Judgment of Others)
I miscount the curves of her face,
the shadows falling where they should not be

Her cheeks, I see
(they've gotten bigger)
but I forget to cancel out
the inflation from her smile
Men
When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pause,
Their shoulders high like the
Breasts of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
Those behinds,
Men.

One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.

Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.

Maybe.
This poem got more views than any of my others and it was always my least favorite.
Strive to be extra ordinary, ladies
A good man
ought to be left
alone,

lest this evil world
wrap itself
around and
swallow him whole.
Ink Nov 2014
The proudest of men that walk the earth
Have been doused in glory since the day of their births
They chase after those who've run away
Speak when there is not a word to say

And their greatest endeavor is to convert the innocent
Hungry for the women striking young and brilliant
Unbelieving of a lady's independence
Sure that all women crave their presence

Like rabid dogs, the proud men search
For those to quench their undying thirst
To be loved and accepted of men of the heart
But these men only search in the emptiness of dark

How can they deny the truth in their faces?
They imbalance the world and its natural paces
No one can love an arrogant, proud man
But they search and search, yet they never understand

That love is for those who are willing to fail
Inspired by D.D.
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