"reclaiming" poems
My orange dress
I wore it last
That night
My soul you undressed
I was in love
With all of you
You stripped it down
Claiming we
Belonged to you.
I am reclaiming
What is mine,
What has always been
Mine
I take a vow
I wear it now
This dress I love
My color of love
Dedicate it to
Ours to adore
The one
Given from above.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 6:25 AM UTC
Death is a reclaiming of wholeness
when life becomes absorbed
in the oneness of the universe
which is everywhere
and nowhere
in that moment
when our loved one goes
the reclaiming
takes part of us
as we become connected
to the fullness of their emptiness
it is more than the mind can understand
only the soul knows
the connection is real
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 12:50 AM UTC
you can tell by the way she swings her hips
and pulls your hair
and licks her lips
and whispers in your ear
that she's easy.
you'll know her by the short skirt
and the tight top
and the high heels,
by the butterfly tattoo on her lower back
and the drink in her hand.
if she carries condoms
or takes birth control,
if she can't say no,
if she takes no convincing,
you'll know.
she's the girl at the party who drinks the most
and laughs the loudest.
she's the one you discarded the first night you met her,
when she gave you
the only part of herself that you deemed worthwhile.
you'll figure her out
from the tar trails of mascara,
the untouched meal,
the word "worthless" carved into her thigh like a brand,
marking her flesh as property
to which you are entitled.
pay close attention to her need for validation.
a **** will have the audacity to seek your approval
just because she's been told all her life
that she is nothing without your love.
she will measure her worth
in units of attractiveness
and desirability
because that is the only system she's ever been taught.
you'll know she's a **** when they find the defendant
not guilty,
and he arrives at the ten-year reunion in a limo.
you'll know she's a **** when she doesn't arrive
at all.
it's easy to spot a ****
in a society that teaches her that her lips are for kisses
and not battle cries,
that her hands are meant to be cradled in yours
and not ****** into the sky,
that her body is your wonderland
and not her home.
it's hard to miss a **** in a culture that paints women as ****** objects
while condemning any expression of female sexuality,
that glorifies the "good girl" who becomes whole
when the right man comes along
and stakes his claim.
the women you ****** in the lifetime before you met your wife
weren't marriage material;
you need a girl who's saved herself for you because
a girl who lets you **** her
crosses the threshold from ****** to ****
in a bizarre coming of age ritual in which your **** is *so ******* important*
that its temporary entrance to her body
renders her worthless.
you can tell she's a ****
because for her, there is no right answer.
you can find your **** at rallies
and in body-baring photographs,
alive in the anxious triumph
of finding something in herself that she can love,
of digging through a lifetime of rubble
and reclaiming small shards of forgiveness from the dirt.
her self-identified status
rips away your long-established privilege
of dictating who she can be
and defining her worth;
your resent her new autonomy.
you can march beside her,
or you can step aside.
she has stolen back her power.
she was made for revolution.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 6:09 AM UTC
Looking at my album,
Of a picture taken,
Long ago built,
Sandcastles,
Made from child dreams,
Of sand and water,
On a shore play day,
Using hand shovel and bucket,
Scooping sand,
Mixing with water,
Hands molding,
A child’s fort takes place,
With dreams of fierce battles,
Slowly afternoon tide comes in,
Washing against castle walls,
Reclaiming its precious sand,
Waves invade,
Hand prints disappear,
Molded mounds fall,
Those castle forms disappear,
Soon they become just a memory,
Forever caught,
In a Kodak moment,
Have you ever made a sandcastle?
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
The field overflowed with the blood of heroes
yet blood fell cheap on the battleground
still no freedom for those who dared
silence to the soul,who made little sound.
Onward they marched common man and soldiers alike
to stop the tyranny once in for all
their cry for freedom echoed in the winds
one by one,the enemies will fall.
Their pledge to the soil turned into action
sacrifices were made in the heart of motherland
patriot after patriot bathed in blood
as quit India movement began to expand.
Finally,at the stroke of midnight hour
freedom came out loud and strong
the people of India cherished their dreams
as a storm loomed with their hallowed song.
To this day,India remembers her heroes
whose blood has spoken the language of freedom
India stands proud,with her flag flying high
reclaiming her land and her beautiful kingdom.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
Never apologize for standing up for your inner child
Never apologize for enforcing boundaries
Never apologize for choosing yourself
Never apologize for choosing to love yourself in this moment
Never apologize for being the knight and hero to your own love story
Never apologize for reclaiming your power
Never apologize for standing in your power.
For God gave the rose beauty,
gentleness and the fragrance of angels
but did not forget to provide it with thorns. To piece the fingers of those
who would be so careless with its heart ..
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 12:13 AM UTC
abuse trigger
In my end is my beginning
-T.S. Eliot-
I distinctly remember the night I decided to get better. I mean once and for all better. On Monday 19th January 2004, at a few minutes past midnight, here, the real story began. I took a deep breath, trusted my instincts, and let myself go. I let myself taste the other side. I let myself fly freely around my environment. I looked in the mirror, removed the mask, and allowed myself to see my own reflection. And I spoke;
“You will do this. And it will start now.”
My mask I wore throughout the endless rapes and sodomizing, were what kept me alive, kept me breathing. Each day and week passed, each morning I would rise, fixate the mask, and go on. Until I no longer could go on in that way. The crash ended before it had even begun. Breathe through the pain, no pain no gain, pain is what allows you to know you are alive. This is how I survived the years of torment inflicted on myself. I re-enacted all the pain on myself in order to know I was alive. I took what I hated of him and made it a part of myself. But in 2004 that ended. I chose to walk a different path. I chose to recover.
Engaging with this topic has given me hope. I know that the future holds something amazing for me. I know that this is what living is. I know this is what freedom tastes like. I love the taste of the rain on my face, the light that shines through the night, and the feeling of well being throughout my whole self.
In **** and ****** abuse you are left hating your body. You blame yourself, and you hurt yourself as a way of reclaiming the body that another took. Your body becomes disconnected from you, it becomes "another", it becomes a "thing.”
In Greek Mythology, Persephone is the goddess of spring. According to her story, she was abducted, ***** and taken to the underworld by Hades, the lord of the underworld. When her mother, Demeter, found out what had happened to Persephone, she convinced Zeus to force Hades to release her. Before Persephone could leave, Hades made her eat a pomegranate, which meant that she would have to return to the underworld for one-third of the year. According to the legend, the time Persephone spends in the underworld is the time in which there is winter on the earth. Because Persephone made it out of the underworld, she can be called the first survivor.
As survivors we can take comfort from the knowledge that although winter is hard, there is always spring around the corner.
© Sia Jane (2007)
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
I will never get apologizes for the words that have left your mouth.
I will never get to erase the trauma you inflicted.
I will never get the relationship I longed for.
The love I so desired.
Today I’m reclaiming my life and everything you stole from me.
Apr 29, 2021
Apr 29, 2021 at 2:05 AM UTC
Even though they control my *****
claim over my lootie,
and they attempt to gaslight my sovereign multifrequency
I haven’t forgotten I am a certified Duesy!
You’re bumming off me, little mousie.
Even if you thought I was a loosy,
I adore my *****
I mean just look at the way it oozes,
sweet nectar that makes you goosey!
I’m too busy
keeping you alive from my *****
Orgasming at light speed to my divine presence, to behold you’d require a diamond koozie.
Call yourself a flouzy
for not respecting this sequency.
If you truly had one too, you’d understand why I am reclaiming my dignity.
They want to own what they do not revere in secrecy.
I can’t be bothered to slow down for you to drain my juicy.
I am too in love with my *****
They try very hard to downplay my power, so sussy.
Bow down or drown in this *****
Ordained into structured flowies,
life is mine, fulfillment With me can be so easy.
But if you’re not with this *****
don’t get too close you Will get dizzy!
So much life is brewing inside my *****
It’s ironic, all these dictators came through my *****
My lips spit you out even though you pretend to be so bossy.
True Power can’t be manipulated you fool, I’d be triggered too if my mind was that lousy!
Are you put off yet, *****
Awww, don’t be so fussy!
Thaw that heart out it’s too icy.
GET OUT of my *****
go elsewhere to be pissy!
Just not on my planet crazy,
you’re on your last mercy!
Jun 9, 2025
Jun 9, 2025 at 11:11 PM UTC
i said goodbye to the first
part of you in Lawrence
thirteen days ago walking
pastthatantiquemall.itrailed
my fingers on its brick and
thought of you reclaiming
my heart in its basement
and i did not want to turn
into dust, did not feel like
melting into the nearest
gutter. i simply took my
hand from the stone,
continued telling
jillian about how
they closed our
hookah bar,
breathed
the early
fall air.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
blunt tips of bent cigarettes
were incisive as razors -
sliced wrists weeping
bright red sentences,
spattered unborn to blank paper
and turned into statues
so the dead would always remember
what they did,
never safe in the graves
in which they'd took refuge
but blue on blue
was ever her color;
blue on blues
seeping from old sins,
deep, hidden within spidery veins
that traced pale, soft *******
finally filling mute lips as she slept,
subsumed in oceans of color,
blues that gave stories, as waves to shore
subsided, reclaiming their pain,
and cleansed sand once more
What end to life!
a collection of furies like stone turtles
arranged on the mantle -
just a few dozen last words
tucked among ads for
Old Spice and Polident tabs
unread, used to line
litter boxes in Cambridge
or wrap fresh fish at Hay Market;
then, someone pausing to wave at the sky
missed saving the drowning woman
by years, if he'd tried,
finding questions in every answer;
child curled in hard lap of his mother,
her cold affections of words
blew from dead lips like old wishes
without tender touch or wet kisses;
but that life continued,
if lived only blue on blue
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 6:02 PM UTC
*Cycle chic fashion
Our slow bicycle movement
Poetry in bike lanes
Sartorialist's on two wheels
reclaiming **** cities*
.
Jun 23, 2010
Jun 23, 2010 at 9:09 AM UTC
"But why don't we have straight pride?"
"I don't mind them really, I'd just rather they didn't shove it down my throat".
"Did you see those lesbians holding hands?"
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
These moments are usually filled with silence. The room is suddenly so quiet, that I can almost hear my fear in the key holes, tucked away inside draws, behind laws, In the space between us.
I sit there and I swallow my pride. I swallow the thoughts of years of coming to terms with who I was and kissing boys to try and feel the way I was supposed to. I swallow walking down streets and staring at strangers, trying to figure out who I found the most attractive. I swallow every time I used to think to myself "It's not real. I'm making it all up. I'm not gay". I swallow the first time I said it out loud. I swallow the first time I was proud. I swallow the way I traced her freckles softly in the sunlight. I swallow the fights with my father and the tears behind closed doors. I swallow the stares in public and the glares and hushed whispers that stayed with me for days. I swallow every time someone would say "but you don't look gay". I swallow being told I can't take a joke. I swallow teachers talking about "homosexuals" as if there were none sitting in the room before them. I swallow being myself. I swallow the very essence of who I am. I swallow loving who I am. I swallow reclaiming the word lesbian, the word that used to sound like a slur. Like a ***** piece of language that only lived in **** videos and his wastepaper bin. I swallow falling in love with women. I swallow each time I stared at my body, and didn't recognise myself. I swallow all the shame in the world. I swallow my pride.
But then fifty voices are swallowed. One hundred loving hands. Two thousand threckles. 20 different countries. 1 million breaths. Fifty hearts whose beats echoed in pride.
And suddenly, I stop swallowing, and start living. For they can take our lives, but they will not take our pride.
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 11:25 AM UTC
When I was young,
fairy tails filled my head.
And I could be a lost boy,
Fighting captain hook.
I was never the princess.
When I was young,
Playing was all I did,
but I climbed up trees,
and splashed in streams,
never touching Barbie dolls.
I was a boy back then.
It wasn’t till I grew,
that I became a lost boy.
Was it when the boys stop playing with me?
Was that when I broke inside?
Lost in a world,
In a world not made for lost boys.
So I let them put makeup on me.
I let them buy me dresses.
I pretend to fancy other boys.
Lost my true self,
But hints of him were there.
He was smart and
He was brave,
He was imbedded within her.
But as he grew,
She saw him,
She heard him calling her.
Save me, find me.
We are a lost boy.
I am a lost boy,
but its not pirates I’m fighting.
I’m fighting to be just a boy.
One who is a boy,
No matter what they say.
I am a lost boy.
One who is reclaiming what they took.
Reclaiming my body.
I must relearn to be a boy.
Just a boy.
This lost boy cut his hair,
hides his *******
He stands tall and proud.
Because he knows,
He is a boy.
I am a boy.
It doesn’t matter what you say.
I know what I am.
So I will return from Neverland,
And wave goodbye to my lost boy
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 7:16 AM UTC
Here I stand at the edge of the woods, hands trembling
At the thought of entering
How am I gonna do this
My sanctuary I miss
But it was taken away
One evil dark day
Once what brought me joy
Now seems to destroy
No longer happy memories
Me in his clutch is all I see
Please my friend take my hand and lead me
For the images he left are beastly
Hold me tight while I grive
For his dark deeds seethe
His putrid touch I still feel
It's to much, to real
I want my sanctuary back
I don't want this beautiful place to turn black
I want to hear the nightingale's song again
Watch the fish in the creeks swim
Watch the breeze
Play about the tree's
I want to once again sit quietly
Seeing the deer walk about so skittishly
Please my friend hold me tight
So these thoughts of his invasion I can fight
Please stay right beside
So when it gets to much in your arms I can hide
This time the darkness I can't fight on my own
For the cut he left was down to the bone
So grip my hand tight and lead me in
One deep breath let us begin
Confronting the memory where it began
Hold on to me so I can stand
Help me dear friend take back this land
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 2:19 PM UTC
I know my way out of this prison
but keep pecking at the trigger
for the food
that will never come again.
the sweetness of lust tinged with hope of love
the hope of being known
hope of being held in safety
the yearning to have it be real
I know the way out of this prison
but keep looking backwards
for the hands
that are closed on empty air
the sweetness of hands reaching out in yearning
aching with a promise
burning in their own dark loneliness
the hope that this might be real
I know this way out of my prison
know if I keep on walking
the walls will fade into mist
the light and air clean on my face
the sweetness of honesty and life
reclaiming what they've nurtured
my heart is safe in my own hands
and I hold today, which is real
Apr 6, 2010
Apr 6, 2010 at 11:58 AM UTC
.
I nfinite
S tars
I nfinite
S pace
Her lithe and arched body
protecting her child. Earth.
Holding hands with her sister,
the twin Goddesses of Truth.
Her name stolen by the liars,
Her glory tarnished with the blood
of the innocent and brave.
So, who's voice will be Her hero?
Her modern lover. Champion.
Her contemporary pharaoh?
© Pagan Paul (13/06/16)
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 6:29 AM UTC
It was never love,
lust causes illusions.
Pulls your heart deep into the sunken place, till all that you're in is a state of confusion.
Building on nothing real,
sacrificing how you feel for the sake of the happiness of someone else, with no reciprocity.
As if they're ashamed of the real you, they try molding you into who they want you to be, just so others can be pleased.
The westernized mind, microwaved and fried, indoctrinated till its living the "American dream," based off of lies.
Always asking "What do you do?" so they know what level of respect to show,
never concerned with your soul, and how bright it must glow.
We need money to survive in this three dimensional life, always taught the ups and downs, left and rights, but never touch on the importance of what's inside.
Always worried about how we look in other people's eyes,
we hold onto nothing except a false reality and relationships built on lies.
But I refuse to pretend to act like this is what life should look and feel like, so I reclaim my heart, climb out of the sunken place and live life with both eyes open wide.
Guarding the heart and protecting my mind.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 3:40 PM UTC
Out of control.
Sometimes they're
the same thing.
the trick is knowing
that,realizing
it's okay to feel
out of control
once in a while,
as long as
you're sure
you can regain
the upper hand
when you
absolutely need to.
and really , when
it comes to my
reclaiming control,
it comes down to one
simple little thing,
something i sometimes
have difficulty with
saying no.....
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
Santa's on the corner, ringing the brass bell
Roast is in the oven and a family starts to yell
Snow is lightly falling, like sugar-dusting for a cake
People wrapping and re-gifting someone's small mistake
Counting hours, filling glasses, mirth is overflowing
Fixing up the house's lights, now it's really snowing!
Adding up expenses and then checking inventory
Reading as the children watch their favorite Christmas story
Snuggled up or stretching out, reclaiming lost couch space
Sliding under mistletoe, caressing lover's face
Living in this moment, drinking it all in
Trying to remember just what a year it's been
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
Scribbles on a yellow notepad, this ink won't last
Letting sweat dry from a long walk, half way there
I didn't notice it on my first passing, or my second
Third time is the charm they say, don't they?
Now I sit in this scummy drainage ditch, writing
A tree, growing from a pile of waste concrete
Dumped carelessly by rough, tired, hands
Green leaves adorn it, this oddity, only a sapling
Like a flower on the peak of Mount Everest
Or an ice cube in the middle of the Gobi
This is not so grand, this urban contradiction
Some day it will be as tall as me, maybe taller
Stretching its limbs, eroding its base
Praising sun rays through photosynthesis
Pushing down roots through man made constructions
Reclaiming the soil from which all life springs & returns
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 5:12 AM UTC
*My heart
Feels like a frostbitten cave nobody should ever go in.
My soul
Feels exhausted, drained and spread really thin.
My mind
Feels like its fighting battles it can never win.*
I find my thoughts
Consumed with anger and despair,
Evil feelings who have created a lair –
A base of operations within my mind,
Staring at the world with a terrifying glare.
And yet, despite all this,
Nothing kills me more than being alone.
This need to experience humanity
Is not simply an act of vanity,
Or a call for attention,
But an attempt at reclaiming sanity.
We are the loneliest generation of all time;
Previous overlords used force to rule,
And whoever didn’t follow was lambasted,
Marked as a traitor and a base fool.
Now, force is merely a tool,
One in many of a lethal arsenal.
Social hierarchies are fake, sometimes downright farcical –
Now, we are divided and conquered.
Our communities have collided,
Our love for each other is drained and flustered.
We are armed with shields of prejudice,
Careening towards a perilous precipice
Of watching out only for ourselves,
With no room in our hearts for anyone else.
I just wish I could let go –
I wish I was an atom of boiling water,
About to break free and become steam,
I wish to taste of true freedom,
To at least get one, tiny gleam.
Yet,
I find myself weary, tired and trapped,
A torturous routine so well-travelled
That, at this point, I could say my brain has it mapped.
I close my eyes
And see visions of you I wish I could forget.
I wish I’d looked before I leapt,
Rather than live with this pain and regret.
I close my eyes, and see
Years of seeking somewhere I belong,
Brothers and sisters with whom I can stand strong.
Yet,
All I seem to find
Is people struggling with their daily grind,
Souls that are just as tired as mine, if not more.
*And so, I find myself
Dealing with this constant craving,
Ranting and raving,
Hoping that this frosty cave is still open to reclaiming,
Hoping that my soul is still worth saving,
And that my mind still finds this battlefield worth braving.*
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 4:06 AM UTC