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Nahal Jul 25
Táhirih, The Pure One, Qurrat al-'Ayn
Poet too, Solace of the Eyes, they say
In 17 the same year as Husayn
Veiled in soft silk proclaiming a new day
Alí granted you a staunch, steadfast Faith
Striking intellect, beauty, and mission  
Vivid dreaming what the Surih saith
The path to equality: your vision
Cover your hair in shame of womanhood
Uncover it for emancipation
Freedom from Iranian clergy would
Prevent your early white expiration

Martyrdom is a choice then it's over
A longing to reach the Friend and Lover
Famously saying "You can **** me as soon as you like, but you cannot stop the emancipation of women!"
Tahiríh, known as the Pure One, was a follower of the Báb and one of the Letters of the Living. She was the only female Letter of the Living, and the only one to not actually meet the Báb in person.
Traci Sims Sep 16
"Love is nothing but a biological transaction," you yelled at me and we fought anew over the perfidies of the male ***.
Initially dismayed, I soon understood that
As a girl, you saw your father break your mother,
Her will over the years fusing with his own
As she became shadow,
And then sickly ghost,
Her lucky marriage effectively erasing the stain of her Jewish birth--
As oh so Catholic Daddy
proudly told his friends and relatives.
And even though you tried to fight Daddy's self-importance,
He was always there behind you, squeezing you between his fists,
molding you, as he imitated his god creating Eve,
Casting you into his own perfect image of chaste and chastened womanhood.
And when your mother decided to permanently leave,
Daddy forbade you to miss her,
Celebrating, instead, his own resurrection with a new project and a new wife.
You thought you could resist,
But Daddy's benevolent advice
about your plain face and lumpy body wormed into your fragile psyche and
cracked you in two, leaving you raving and disjointed.
Daddy eventually joined his sky-Father
And you wept, vowing to forget and remember his legacy.
And now you live, addled and alone,
A basket of pills on your dresser,
Fanatically frustrated yet terrified of a man's  touch,
Angry yet wishing Daddy was here to save you.
And as the years passed and your friends married and divorced, you
convinced yourself that you had
escaped a woman's fate , not
realizing that you had offered up your own heart and soul  years ago as a suitable offering to His eternal memory.

Yes, Daddy made ****** sure there would be no following act.
This is the story of a real person. Everything I wrote about her father is something she told me actually happened to her and her family. It is a modern American horror story.
The cast iron cot frame stood in the garden
At the top left and held the relics of blue
Unleaded paint used to cover a girlish pink
The mattress disintegrated it contained plants
Mother’s cuttings from an extensive garden.

The girl now eleven and very thin
Sat in a homemade embroidered skirt
And played with her unbraided hair
Her feet neatly together like a doll
A teenage doll from The Pedigree range.

The beginning of ******* were forming
And insecurities and dissatisfaction open
That day in the sun with cousin Hilary
Two different specimens of womanhood
I only really knew her a short time .

Love Mary ***
A beautiful lady from Bridport who died of cancer at 58
In remembrance of cousin Hilary loved and cherished.Cousin Mary
Phoebe Mar 29
You're an absolute menace
Who taught you to break hearts like that?

Who put a young man from the backstreets of a city in the 1940s into your body?

Not a care in the world, it's brash confidence, you love hard hit hard
All or nothing
It's who you are.

Young woman.

Braids and a baseball cap
Complexes piling up behind your eyes

You wear fake smiles like they're going out of style
Smile real ones at the people you'll grow up to hurt the most

Who taught you how to use your womanhood as a weapon?

Maybe nobody,
Maybe nobody.

Maybe you taught yourself. Dumb lucky teenager, scrappy as hell and ****** to boot

Sins on your shoulders, a good heart.
You're a menace, a freak

It's unbelievable, truly,
It's obscene, really

They worship the ground you walk on and you go home and cry in the closet.
Ingmar Bergman externalisés by
Using women in his films to
Understand himself.
The two sides of himself.
So much of myself and my awareness
Of the graces of women come from my
Mother. The way my father treated
My mother was an sustaining influence too.

I remember my mother’s grey curly hair,
large ******* hanging like two full plums.
As she washes in the bathtub
Rounded belly, dark, floating, soapy ***** hair
Mother is forty - four.

Taking me into *******, softly, quietly
Mysteriously, my ******* are budding, two pink *******
A pretty navy padded brassière to wear under my blouse
When I go to school. This blouse is nylon and translucent
Womanhood that wet place of secret
sounds, scents and shapes.

Thank you mum for helping me to become a woman to take into my ****** form and become all that I did,Love you.

Love Mary xxxx. Your daughter.
Mark Robins Aug 2018
Inspiration is scarce.

Masculinity ravages like a
starved beast on all
that's pure and painless.

Upon my life it clings and
departs not now nor never.

In hours of weakness it strikes
and pseudo power creates a
pleasant bleakness.

When all is over I lay in sweating
idleness. Womanhood must hate me
but sometimes I hate it too...

*** is a *****
Women - sounds, scents and shapes.
Ingmar Bergman externalisés by
Using women in his films to
Understand himself.
The two sides of himself.
So much of myself and my awareness
Of the graces of women come from my
Mother and father.The way my father treated
My mother was a sustaining influence too.

I remember my mother’s grey curly hair,
large ******* hanging like two full plums.
As she washes in the bathtub
Rounded belly, dark, floating, soapy ***** hair
Mother is forty - four.

Taking me into *******, softly, quietly
Mysteriously, my ******* are budding, two pink *******
A pretty navy padded brassière to wear under my blouse
When I go to school. This blouse is nylon and translucent
Womanhood that place of secret
sounds, scents and shapes.

Thank you mum for helping me to become a woman to take into my ****** form and appreciate it and become all that I did.

Love Mary ,      Your daughter. Love you ..
mariadt Nov 2018
The exploration of womanhood,
viewed by a child, who had failed to birth an heir
and was auctioned amidst a war,
to lay beside the man who Lyrnessus heard before it saw,
and felt, before they felt nothing at all.

Plucked from childhood to motherhood,
failed motherhood, into obedience and slavery,
despised by her husband's mother for the absence of life she yearned to grow.
Then veiled in a soft pearlescent,
that blurred, but did not hide, the reason she survived,
and her brothers and husband did not.

Her barren belly proved a blessing when the girls in tents sprouted kleos from their swollen stomachs,
to carry the son of foreigners, bloodthirsty for their native home.
These girls, they are just girls, brainwashed by glory and trauma,
carry children that will slaughter their brothers of blood,
in the name of a woman seen only as a measurement of egotistic revenge.

And what of Briseis?
Aristos Achaion, they cried.
To them, he will always be: the best of the Greeks,
even after Apollo favours the hand of Paris and forges fate to impale the accidental hamartia.
What is her legacy?

Aristos Achaion, they cry.
As the boy who carries his blood rises from the fire and carries forward after his father's body hit the ground.
In response to Homer's Iliad, inspired by Pat Barker's Silence of the Girls
Adya Jha Oct 2018
My body is a temple
My bleeding is divine
My womanhood is spiritual
In ways that an intolerant devotee like you cannot understand
So when you barr me from entering Sabarimala
Remember that you can't stop a goddess
Saraswati is wise but her rage is wild and merciless
Lakshmi will create earthquakes that will devastate
Durga will pierce your heart with her spear
Parvathi will leave her abode and run into the streets
Kali will destroy you in unimaginable ways
They reside within us
We will cut our feet on your shattered glass
We will shout till our voices become hoarse
An army of neglected women will create a tsunami
Till you're on your back, crying
Till you give up your apparent 'religion-saving'
Helpless, wailing
And bleeding
The Supreme Court of India ruled that not allowing women in their “menstruating years” into the Sabarimala temple is against the constitution, and all women should be allowed to enter the temple. This was met with a lot of opposition from the conservatives and the entry of women into the temple was blocked by protestors.
He Pa'amon Aug 2018
"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
inspired by the song Jo Jo's Jacket by Stephen Malkmus
Bellissima May 13

The news came in blows–bashes
to the heart, a butcher
beating a pound of meat.

The doctor said it was your breast,
that sack of fat that hung
so peacefully along your torso.
That soft small pouch which carried a secret,
a coin purse hiding stolen money.

It was that round raisin spout
that oozed liquid love,
what had once nurtured life
only now, to take it away.


The chemo was cold,
naked branches
in the midst of winter.

The doctor said your hair would go,
that those sun brushed locks would fall,
an autumn tree flaking its leaves.

Your nurtured garden,
to be plucked and uprooted,
picking carrots, bare and bald.


The disease crept up– multiplied,
a bomb of ants
ravishing a crumb of bread.

The doctor said that it had spread
to the cauliflowerd bumps between your hips,
to the heart shaped tubes that cradled
the unwanted mass, a *******
born without a father.

It was an attack your womanhood,
the predator, a ghostly outline
that lingered faintly in the scan.


The surgery took hours–heartbeats,
the wife of a soldier
waiting to hear of survival.

The doctor said they cut you open,
scraped it out, a pumpkin
scooped and carved on Halloween night.
Your gooey insides probed and poked,
until the rest of it was gone.

He said they shut you with staples,
a spine–like trailed railroad track,
that the skin around turned yellow,
while you looked sore and dead.


The healing happened slowly,
an infected wound
spewing pus then scabbing over.

The doctor said that you were clear,
like fresh water, clean and pure.
He said your hair would start to grow,
spring up like tulips
from beneath your scalp.

and you smiled so warmly–
the sun had baked your mouth.
Not only had your body healed,
but your soul.
*n a k e d* branches
A *b a s t a r d* born without a father
Jade Sep 2018
I. The Mermaid

I am six years old,
and I am obsessed with Ariel
from The Little Mermaid--
she is, by far,
my favourite Disney Princess.

I want to be exactly like her--
hair billowing in red swirls
around a heart-shaped face
and eyes so blue they put the very
ocean to shame
(my sister has blue eyes too, you know,
and, to this day, I still envy her,
for her eyes are the loveliest
characteristic of her Beauty--
and believe me, there are many);
purple clam shells vibrant
against porcelain-doll skin
and fully blossomed *******
(in three years from now,
I will begin
to grow *****--
elementary-school style,
B Cups going on C cups
fated to become D Cups,
in comparison to the
budding mosquito bites of
my fellow classmates.
Barely a child,
womanhood threatens
to sexualize my girlish body
before I truly know
what sexualization is);
fins cutting through the water
gracefully in all their
green, iridescent glory
(little did I know that,
as I grew older,
"cutting" would adopt
a far more sinister meaning
in the context of my life).

despite my admiration for Ariel,
I fail to understand her desire
to abandon her
under-sea rendezvous,
sunken treasures,
oceanic melodies to
"be where the people are."

This lack of approval I foster
exists due to the fact that I am
a firm believer of the magic
the aquatic realm (and Disney)
has to offer.

To this day,
I continue to maintain my stance--
that Ariel had been terribly wrong
in the choices she made--
but I have become cognizant of
different (and better) reasons
to argue my position;
after all,
and as a cartoon crab
had so wisely declared once,
"The human world--
it's a mess."
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!
Luiz Jan 16
On an uneventfull
Monday afternoon,
she lays in bed dressed
in black laced lingerie

Then, a glowing,
vibrating screen
reads: "Hubby cell"

She starts:

My darling,

I've had a bad day
I'm tired, done and

right now
I could really use
your sweet lips
to numb my ails

I won't take time with
the usual foreplay,
not today!

I'm flying home
still dressed in my
3 piece suit and
I'm making a crash
landing on the couch


That's right!

and when I get to that
leather reclyner
you're coming out
the bedroom

you'll be wearing
your 4 inch heels,
the candy red lipstick,
the black bralette
that make your gorgeous
******* look so suculant,
and nothing else

is that right?!

the bralette that makes
my ******* hard
when you just
stare at them?

That same one!

Then what am I doing after that?

Then, you will float
slowly over to me
sit on my pipe and
start rubbing
yourself against
my metal manhood!

Hum...I see,
am I getting wet
all over your pants
as I start to ride you
like a cowgirl?

I want to be sticky wet
with your candilicious liquid
all on my pants!

so much so,
that your
honey will
drench thru to
my manhood!

I will have your perfume
all over my steel before
you're done galloping, baby!

(She can't resist
but to see the words
come to life)
She tells him:
I'm getting the honey
flowing just listening to you!
my mouth is watering
(licks her upper lip)
I'm touching...

Stop! like I said,
this is for me!
make no mistake!

you'll be my slave
and I, your master!

after you engulf me
in your essence,
you'll tenderly kiss
my sugary neck
as take my tie
and shirt off!

with your other
soft and burning hand
you will trace
all the gorging,
fat veins from
my other neck!

But babe, I'll need you
in me by then!

I'll be drenching
sweetness for you!

You're going to wait!

Why are you being
such a ****?

Because for today,
that's all I will
be to you!

The biggest, most
delicious popsickle
for the deepest,
dryest reaches
of your throat!

(No words articulate
she loved giving oral
and the poet knew it)

(the writer was going
to **** her silly
with his voice alone
before he even
touched her)

(he finally understood
the power he could
summon with
fantasy filled words.)

(only heavy breathing
and dry swalloying
is heard on his end
of the phone)

(******* images
of her bobbing head
start flooding into
her warm and
drenching womanhood)

(clear honey is bursting
from sweaty, tight,
pleasure lips)

(she slips half a tongue out,
as if to catch rain from
in between her shaky hips)

(the sugary rivers flow
onto shaved hair follicles
and manicured fingers
as if he turned her ****
on like a fauset!)  

(the poet had morphed
from a hurt cub
to a Lion King
at his prime!)

(she's a tornado of sensuality
finding herself.
******* herself.
tasting the deliciousness
sticking to her index)

(she gets lost in a
blissful landscape
between her red,
bothered *******
and her open hips) 

(she comes to reality)

then, with a trembling
low voice wisphers:

"yes master, how else
may I serve you?"

Your ocean blue weepers will
not look away from my eyes
as they roll back with pleasure!

you'll be looking
up at me on your knees!  

bobbing your head,
choking, wanting more!

you will feel the tip
of my steel gorche
with blood and
you'll move your head
faster and faster
as I quench your
thirst for sin!

Gods will peek in envi
as your face fulfills my
carnal fantasies

until I burst my dam
into your mouth!

(She **** undone
and squirts from
between her legs!)

(her moan echoes
for half a block:)


the silk sheets are
drenched with ambrosia

mission accomplished  
I'm at the driveway  
get your gorgeous face and heels ready!


Luiz (at thedriveway) Syphre
Luiz Nov 2018
You are the stranger
that comes to
guide me by the hand

the one to light up the
darkness and show
us the plan

one eternal against
sands of time as
wife and man

cometh slowly into my animal cage.  Woman you are defined flawless.   My tigress, I taste your womanhood with the blowing breeze.  The perfect specimen after his image of what gorgeous is! Your spirit drips sweaty with deliciousness!  You'd melt inside my burning mouth!  Just one drop of that salty sweetness and I”m high.   Your beauty is too much fight for me...I surrender to you, my queen.  You have got to be mine!  

The foreplay:

We are like caged tigers!  Round and round the look.  We torpedo our sensual prowess with a stare.  I will make your eyes roll back with pleasure!  I ****** promise'll feel things you didn't know you could.  I'm firm on my convictions, you will soon find out.  Things that make the devil blush.  Baby, I'm your tiger and you the great amazon playground!

Closer and closer.   We know exactly what to do! screaming!  “I want to **** and rock your body with a vengeance!”  Round and round, closer, eyes locked, faces meet.  I bite your bottom lip. Softly….tenderly.  You sigh and prelude the night ahead.  Little bite to your delicious upper lip.  Sigh.  Then you throw your sugary, glossy lips at my neck and  you BITE!  It hurts, yet I can’t help but to scream “Harder Baby, bite fucken harder!”  You do and draw red ...I love it!

Your hormones arrest  my taste buds and your sweet surrender is the only thing on my mind! Your beautiful hair silowets against a giant window as you  go down, and down...the anticipation is killing me!   I taste your scent like candy in my mouth. We blend as one shadow into the darkness of sin.  Indistinguishable.  

My warm hands feel steaming on you as we both now drop the floor.  I work slowly down from caressing your neck! your gorgeous *******.  With one swift move towards your back, I let your brazier drop down to your hips...those hips that men to go war over.  You allow yourself to be worshipped and I roam free as I bury my head in your *****!  Bite a twin, then the other, you drench pink lemonade from the sweat, so sweet and bitter!….and your song..Oh! How Sweet!  your surrender!  Woman, let me be Man!

Third Base: To be continued
Sidney Chelle Jan 15
"I think what struck me most about the movie was, the men weren't saying that the law was fair. They were saying that it wasn't, but that it needed to stay that way. It needed to stay unfair, because if they gave women the same opportunities as men, then men wouldn't be in power. Women would take the jobs and roles that men had always been given. It wasn't that they didn't think they were disenfranchising women.

It's that they knew they were, and they wanted it that way."


O, sir! O, snivelling, swollen man!

You are chicken meat and bird bones, sighing snuffles and nasal tones.

All your knowledge is known to me, and yet you treat me as some kind of mean green Internet queen, some kind of blithe yawning broad, some kind of child with stupid eyes and dripping lips, instead of the mother Isis that I am, instead of a woman who is barely crammed into the bristly confines of her self-concept, let alone your own!

You are snob-hardy and spiteful, sir. You are nosesome and noiseish. You fill spaces that retract from your loatheability, and you cannot see how they do because your eyes are full of fantasia and fear.

You are a walking ham-hock. You swagger and talk as if that slight edge to your jawbone grants you the same *** appeal as a Hemsworth, but you do not know all that women see in a Hemsworth. You do not care for all that women see. You splutter and shout when a woman dares speak a fiendish reality out loud instead of staying prim and ***** and proper and pretty. All that women see is that you are garbage, you are below garbage because garbage has someone who cared enough to throw it out. Women do not care enough to throw you out. They do not care to fix you, for you are somewhere beyond broken, somewhere for which there are no words. Language cannot hold the reprehensibility of your core.

You are disgusted by women who behave ****. You are disgusted by women who enjoy behaving ****.

O, to think the world was created for you! That blisscious ignorance, that bilious sucrosic worldview. That gift that your father granted to you. It bears such dripping fruit. To think that all of that was moot!

To think that a woman dare exist not for you.

Sir, have you ever said something, and, out of the corner of your eye, you witnessed the women in the room glance at each other? Sir, if glances could speak! O, sir, that glance said, "He is not our equal. He is not grown. He is a boy in man's clothes, he is a frightened yelping beastchild playing at CEO and ROI, at working in skyscrapers and reading the newspapers. He is lustful and laughable. Let him never become one of our own."

Supercilious, insolent man! Haughty, uppity boy! Unreasonable to the extreme! You are superficial, optional in my life, in the lives of all women. To us you are in grayscale, unevolved, uninvolved with our validity and our pride. You are oafish and numb, defensive with nothing worth defending. To instruct you to self-reflect conjures an image of you folding yourself through your legs, circling around your core, over your back, and doing this again and again, all the while whining and snorting that there is nothing to see here.

Do you not see the exhaustion in viewing this masterful display of amateurity? O, sir. O, unlovable ******. It is so tempting to dream, even for a moment, that you really, truly believe you are in the right. O, what euphoria to think that perhaps you are a nice man, that you mean well, that you just don't know any better, and that the tar that flows from your slippery lips was stuffed down your gullet by cruel society. To think that it is not original, to think that somewhere, deep in your egocentric belly, there is a valve waiting to turn it all off.

I despair that there is no valve. The certainty, deep inside my confusing womanhood, deep inside my mysterious uterine canals and my awful "unknowability" (that every determined woman has come to know), terrifies me.

The benefit of the doubt.

Whom does the doubt benefit?
would love feedback on this one! tried to play with word sounds and meter a bit. inspired by mary gaitskill and RBG.
Toxic yeti Nov 2018
The young lady asked the Yeti
“What is your name…do you have one?” As the kissed.
While kissing, the Yeti said that he had no name. So the young lady
Massaging his chest gave him a name
Vajramrita… after the fierce deity
For he was a fierce lover.
He kissed her on the fore head.
Vajramrita and the young woman kissed
Their tounges me and dance erotically.
She sat on her lover while kisssing and rode him and rolled her hips.
He ****** with her ****** rhythms as they coupled.
Soon enough the Yeti got on top of his delecate lover.
He entered her and gently jumping
As if trying not to hurt her
The yeti thengot between her legs
She could feel his face bewteen her.
Then she felt his probing tounge.
He gently yet passionately kissed her womanhood
Again not to hurt her.
Even monsters need love and defection.
The young woman stroked his head and he looked at her.
She took him my the scruff and pulled his head closer to her
And kissed him. As they kissed monster and human explore eachother in an embrace
The young lady went down
And kissed and nipped at his member.
After she was done with his member
The kissed and they slept in each other’s arms
Body twisted and entwined together
the soles of his feet were the foundation of a greek god physique. his legs were lengthened; muscular, beyond well-defined. his ivory teeth all set where they should be like the stars in the sky aligned.
his ***** defined his virility. my heart gasped to catch its breath as i gripped his manhood. already i could tell he was trouble. yet, little did i know, he was surprisingly humble.
the sculpted 8-pack hidden underneath every shirt, that hung loosely from broadened shoulders, was the symbol of masculinity. without him there’d be no existence of my femininity.
he had a thing for wanting to become one of the “bigger guys”. you know, with the pulsating veins and the bulging eyes. his determination had never ceased. maybe not in body, but in the heart he was a beast.
in my eyes he was adam. perfectly molded from dirt by the hands of God, you see. there was no need to change anything about him, especially the unconditional love he continued to grow for me.
those slender fingers never failed me in times of comfort. wherever they had laid upon my body, a sudden feeling of importance came rushing to me. he made it known, i was his one and only priority.
unlike the man known as “father” who left me shattered. i was a glass vase that slipped from clumsy, oiled fingertips, pieces scattered. “why didn’t he want me?” the amount of times i’ve asked myself this question couldn’t be measured. but you know what they say, “one man's trash is another man’s treasure.”
this new human being removed all of my pain, regret, frustration and spite the moment his eyes locked on mine that one night. and that’s all it ever took. then after a gentle kiss on the front of my hand, and a promise that i’d never feel abandoned again. i was shook.
the feeling of countless monarch wings fluttering in the pit of my stomach, was all the proof I needed to know he was real. with every beat of his heart, all doubts were killed.
for he yearned for longevity. he fought for peace. he lived for happiness. he prayed for love's keep. his neck held the scent of his ebony skin. the exotic collision of lingered cologne and sweat from practice filled my nostrils and made me think thoughts of sin.
lips, full and pink indicated ****** needs and ****** desires. he’d brush them against mine not knowing it was only adding fuel to the fire. a slight touch behind the ear allowed my brain to send goosebumps running all down to my feet. a stream flown from my womanhood when his hand and my inner thigh would meet. the words “don’t stop” flew from my lips without hesitation. there was a rising from his pants from the thought of pleasurably *******.
languages from different parts of the world rested on the tip of his tongue. they slipped from his lips like a slow sax piece echoing in a bayou. it was something about his range, his tone, his enunciation that had the power to do something to you.
a feature that had always stood out- his nose, boldly displayed the ethnic background from which he came. his ancestors were traced back to their original roots in Africa, the culture was obvious from his last name.
his ears possessed the will to listen to problems, thoughts and even opinions of others before his own. although i knew him well enough to know he’d only release his emotions when alone. somehow he knew when to say more or less, or if being a listener in silence was for the best.
his brain held as the control center for intellect and psychological being. if you weren’t sure of something, he was the one to go to for meaning.
he had owned a mind i had never come across in my eighteen years of life. the day he met me, he’d told me he had found his wife. his dark skin was the protection of many layers, each one a step closer to his soul. is it bad that when i’m not in his presence, i don’t feel whole?
glimmering in the sunlight was his deepened melanin, smooth as the petals of a rose. it was him, the man i chose. and he chose i.
until it was time my temporary lover and i had to say goodbye.

- d.berry
“You know nothing! Nothing about
beating a woman like a lady.”
   “Which woman? Which lady?”
   “The lady within my womanhood, the
woman within my ladyship. Can't it ever again be like
it used to be when we were so much in love with each other?”
   “Never! **** it!”
the Terror Oct 5
become immovable,
a wall of unimaginable strength
too tall to see over and
too wide to walk around.
become undeniable;
do not mewl,
become so vast you cannot be looked past, shoulders so broad you cannot be held with one arm.
do not drown yourself in the tide of a man who would not **** on you if you were burning.
cultivate a culture of talking back. cornering. countering.
refusing and defying.
become unwavering.
become brave.
become angry.
become loud.
not because you are bitter but because you deserve the things you've been denied.
become immovable.
reposted w/ minor edit
Graff1980 May 8
She wears no hair
but multi-colored
around her *******
and over her
A scaled tail
swings swiftly
back and forth
in the
sparkling infinite
whilst black bat
leathery wings
allow her
to slow the
into a
watery darkness.

The air becomes
a thick and
burning liquid
heavy with
ionic energy.

She moves fluidly
in this mercury
the puddle
with her
fast flicking finger.
Silver ripples
work their way
from within
to without.

A soft figure
falls in
the firmament,
till the ether
tightens around her
forming a bubble.

Oily rainbows
bend and swirl
in sick distortions
that are reflected
upon the slippery surface.

The black water below
cracks and separates
leaving her to face
another cosmic creature,
a hungry hole
vast and black.

A permeable chasm
of nothing
draws her
entire being
down into
the chaos.

Then she bends
with the fierce force
of gravity,
pulled and elongated
stretched, and separated,
screaming in agony
as she is shredded
faster then
the speed of light.

In this entropy
my dear dream
a horrid death,
of meaninglessness.
❤️❤️❤️❤️ My toilet & I have been through thick & thin. Our eyes met across the showroom floor of toilets and, in a flush, we fell in love.
   Kandee didn't like the walnut-wood office. On the table was a walnut bowl of walnuts. The receptionist was the color of walnuts.
   “Please excuse me from scratching my *** in front of you,” the philosopher said. “But there's no front to my ***.” Indeed, the front of his *** was not to be seen. “Care for a walnut?” He proffered in mid-scratch. “Thanks,” Kandee said, as she gulped several walnuts like they were Brazil-cut nuts.
   “You are very attractive,” the philosopher said, “like a walnut tree.”; “Thanks.”; “Won't you please sit here?” The philosopher motioned begrudgingly.; “I will comply,” Kandee replied romantically like a robot. “Stroke the core of my womanhood,” she murmured as she no longer controlled her thoughts and urinary bladder. The philosopher looked at her with a disgust that was walnut-husk hard. “Leave!” He ordered. “Leave or else!”; “I don't like the sound of that,” she philosophized in a manly, but strangely unmasculine way. Suddenly, like a bomb going off without warning, a huge hose explosion happened. Kandee was thrown 700 feet yet landed safely on a massive bale of cotton at the Q-tip factory. “Man,” she opined, “how lucky was that?!” Coincidentally, the  philosopher lay beside her, stunned. “Place your hand normally where your foot is,” Kandee instructed, “and ****** rhythmically.” In doing so he was healed & redeemed. “Save for me a seat in Heaven because I'm going home.” ❤️❤️❤️❤️
Lovely Lady Lia Aug 2018
Her curves
is a work
of art

in all
the fanciful

the admirer
admire her
finishing touch

a delicate
the beauty
she withhelds
Iskra Nov 2018
“Respect yourself!” They say to young girls,
“Your body is a temple”

A temple.
With sensual art and tiled floors,
A pyramid that stands for thousands of years in its grace,
Bringing awe in its imperfection.
Faded colors, chipped walls, and climbing vines
It is still worthy to be a place of worship.

You say my body is a temple.
But you really mean you want it to be your temple.
A place seen or used by no one but you,
One that hasn’t stood through stood through a thousand storms
One that never shows the pain that every step of womanhood brings with it,
The burning skin on our ******* and thighs,
The aching pain that rolls through our stomachs and backs,
And the blood lost with it.

My body is an apple tree
With slim, graceful branches that stretch and bend
And sweet smelling blossoms
With bark that cracked from rapid growth,
and gnarled, twisting roots.
Imperfect yes, like anything beautiful.
Yet all you want are my fruits.
So you tell me that they must be sour anyway
Because they’re unavailable to you.

So next time you tell me to respect myself,
Here’s what I’ll have to say:

If you truly believe that my body is a temple
Then get out.
You have no place telling me how to decorate the altar.
Toxic yeti Jan 22
As we make love
And kiss
You quit kissing my mouth
And start to kiss all
Of my chakras
You finish by
My root chakra
My womanhood
As you make love to me
You worship me.
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