There's something deeply satisfying
In decimating a piece of runaway tissue
With a healthy jet of piss.
I stand towering above it
As it clings stealthily to the ceramics
It bleeds yellow.
I feel no remorse.
Perhaps that's why
If the world were ruled by women
There'd be less war.
I am worth more than my breasts
My body is worth more than your horny desires
If you lust after me then prove your desires through a song, written words or simple communication
Do not send me your less than mediocre ungroomed extremitie in a snap
With the word "boobies?" written on it
Take you and your salivating mouth elsewhere
If all you see me for is my breasts.
there was a slice of chocolate cake in the fridge
and my sister asked me if i wanted it.
i didn't respond, stared off into space
and continued to smoke my cigarette
in the kitchen because mom was
asleep already and it was 1 am
on a saturday in july
and it was hot and we were both braless and hoping
the single fan on the counter would circulate the air enough
to make us comfortable in the cottage that we called home
that didn't have air conditioning in the middle of the woods.
the three of us hadn't moved for three more hours,
instead spent all of that time talking about nothing
and everything the way sisters do
because sisters eventually end up saying all the words that have
to be said
but each time it sounds new even though it never is.
we're all different but the thing about sisters is
that other people always see you as the same.
we all eventually grew into having brown hair
even though i had been born a redhead
and she had been born blond
and she had been born the same shade of brunette
that still graced her scalp but was thinner than the rest of ours
and fit in an elastic pony tail comfortably
unlike mine, which broke those things immediately
and she, who cut hers all off in hopes
to cleanse herself and
keep herself from being weighed down.
We women fold linen
some believe we live solely in the kitchen
we are a force of nature,
we nurture children, we are driven,
we kiss things better, we matter.
We women hold opinions
we women mould opinions,
where else but in the kitchen,
nurturing, washing, listening,
dishing wisdom with love.
We women are cloaked
in many roles,
villain, lover, mother, cook
smothering all under our cloak.
We women suffer more
due to our nature, we're also tougher
than a right hook!
Duck next time women are driven
We women are the ignition
of life, love and understanding
we go by many names,
Mother, sister, aunt, wife and nan.
Our own name lost to time.
Would I want to be a man?
We women are fruition,
we are magicians,
we are are giants in our own right.
I wanted to write about confidence
Not the kind that makes
a girl pout her lips
and hide her spark away.
Not the kind that makes
a woman look presumptuous,
even though she feels like
a little girl inside.
I wanted to write about
The kind of inner beauty that
simply shines through.
The type of confidence
that smiles at strangers
and speaks her mind.
I wanted to write
about the type of walk
that isnt afraid of
and the firm step
that knows what she deserves
and what she wants.
I wanted to capture confidence
to unravel it
and put it into a formula
but how can I do this
if I still feel insecure most of the time?
They say women can't fight
Can't write good poetry
Can't create good paintings
Can't play sports
Can't work good jobs
Or do what a man does
I think they're afraid
Afraid that women might be better than them or equal in skill
The world is changing
Changing for the better
Can you help your black brother push even when he's stuck.
Can you pick him up even when he's down.
Can you build him up after society has teared him down.
Can you love him even after the world has hated him from over four hundreds ago.
Can you love your brother?
Because our black men need our black women.
I wish that I
could fall in love
with a female,
for she would make
a far better muse than
the gruff sailors and musicians
and drunks and men
in general that I am
inclined to crave.
to write about
a painted pout or
skin that brushes against
your own like nylon,
sunlight shining through
the window onto a Cupid's bow
and dancing down to
a delicate clavicle, or
black eyelashes that bat
and blink remorse
into your cavernous heart,
to muse over such aesthetic
delights, would be
ecstasy for my poetess heart.
I linger, staring, at beautiful
women, androgynous women,
delicate, feline women,
together in my head
over long legs and
hair that flutters like silk,
and they think I'm crazy
or in love with them.
well, maybe I am crazy,
but I crawl into bed each night
with my snarling, gleaming,
and I love him madly,
my rugged muse.