Tag Archives: poetry

Listen To Me Woman

If you grow up the type of woman men want to look at,
You can let them look at you.
But do not mistake eyes for hands,
Or windows for mirrors.
Let them see what a woman looks like.
They may not have ever seen one before.
If you grow up the type of woman men want to touch,
You can let them touch you.
Sometimes it is not you they are reaching for.
Sometimes it is a bottle, a door, a sandwich, a Pulitzer, another woman –
But their hands found you first.
Do not mistake yourself for a guardian, or a muse, or a promise, or a victim or a snack.
You are a woman –
Skin and bones, veins and nerves, hair and sweat
You are not made of metaphors,
Not apologies, not excuses.
If you grow up the type of woman men want to hold,
You can let them hold you.
All day they practice keeping their bodies upright.
Even after all this evolving it still feels unnatural,
Still strains the muscles, holds firm the arms and spine.
Only some men will want to learn what it feels like to curl themselves into a question mark around you,
Admit they don’t have the answers they thought they would by now.
Some men will want to hold you like the answer.
You are not the answer.
You are not the problem.
You are not the poem, or the punchline, or the riddle, or the joke.
Woman, if you grow up the type of woman men want to love,
You can let them love you.
Being loved is not the same thing as loving.
When you fall in love,
It is discovering the ocean after years of puddle jumping.
It is realizing you have hands.
It is reaching for the tightrope after the crowds have all gone home.
Do not spend time wondering if you are the type of woman men will hurt.
If he leaves you with a car alarm heart.
You learn to sing along.
It is hard to stop loving the ocean,
Even after it’s left you gasping, salty.
So forgive yourself for the decisions you’ve made,
The ones you still call mistakes when you tuck them in at night,
And know this.
Know you are the type of woman who is searching for a place to call yours.
Let the statues crumble.
You have always been the place.
You are a woman who can build it yourself.
You are born to build.

– Sarah Kay

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Inventory

“Four be the things I am wiser to know:
Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.
Four be the things I’d been better without:
Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.
Three be the things I shall never attain:
Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.
Three be the things I shall have till I die:
Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.”

― Dorothy Parker,

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New Year: A Dialogue

MORTAL:

“The night is cold, the hour is late, the world is bleak and drear;
Who is it knocking at my door?”

THE NEW YEAR:

“I am Good Cheer.”

MORTAL:

“Your voice is strange; I know you not; in shadows dark, I grope.
What seek you here?”

THE NEW YEAR:

“Friend, let me in; my name is Hope.”

MORTAL:

“And mine is Failure; you but mock the life you seek to bless. Pass on.”

THE NEW YEAR:

“Nay, open wide the door; I am Success.”

MORTAL:

“But I am ill and spent with pain; too late has come your wealth. I cannot use it.”

THE NEW YEAR:

“Listen, friend; I am Good Health.”

MORTAL:

“Now, wide I fling my door. Come in, and your fair statements prove.”

THE NEW YEAR:

“But you must open, too, your heart, for I am Love.”

-Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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Fairy Tales

Once upon a time she had felt trapped inside her story with its familiar characters and predictable plot… 

She still is.

But her life goes on in reverse

Her once upon a time came at the very end

The happily ever after happened first

Not in the beginning but somewhat in the middle

After the nightmares before the big mistakes…

~

Then the Prince Charming came not on a horse

Armed with dollars but without a sword

He gave her poisoned apple and left her no choice

She has to bite and swallow the whole

Then she slept and the nightmares began

It took her years to wake up and run…

~

The forest was dark cold and dangerous

She was all alone little Red Riding Hood

Along the way she met a friendly wolf

He took her home gave her shelter and food

They became friends sort of partner in crime

She helped him to grow big and flourish in life

Her task was enormous taking care of her friend

The wolf was her universe no time for little else…

~

Years have gone by before she realized

She lives in isolation, a prison without bars

She wants to run away and become free again

Feel the sun on her face wind caresses her hair

But her wish alas can never ever come true

The time has run out it is now too late

She is not anymore the girl she used to be

No longer on land altered beyond belief

Her only choice is to sink or to swim

No other options left____

Her feet became a tail…


13.12.2018 03:12 Thursday
©2018 ImpossibleBebong@My Own Private Idaho. All Rights Reserved.

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A Christmas Story

Up and down the streets she ran
With a black satin sack in hand.
Filled with sharp knives
She planned to end lives.

From house to house she crept so quietly
Looking almost, no, indeed shadowy.
But she was not alone with her sack
There was something riding on her back.

Green eyes gleamed riding through the night
Glaring around so full of spite.

“Who are you?”
A man’s voice asked
“You don’t know? I am not masked.”

“Get out of here! What do you think you’re doing??”
“Out of here? I think not. You are the one I’ve been pursuing!”
“Pursuing? You’re nuts! Get the fuck outta here!”

“Right now I can feel your fear!”
“Ha! That’s rich. I’m not scared”
“Like I even really cared”
“That’s it, I’m calling the police. They’ll have you pinned.”

The shadowy girl just grinned.
The man went for the phone
In one second he hit the floor with a moan.

Those green eyes glared down
“Ha! What a clown”
What a sweet voice.
The man looked up at those eyes
“Time to say your goodbyes”
With one swift move of a vase that man was gone.

“This isn’t so hard now is it?”
The shadow shook his head
The blood flowed red
“We have a long night ahead.”
He kicked the pieces of vase
“Yes, I know, Sweet face.”

With that the shadows did flee
That man didn’t even get a chance to plea.
Hours passed
This town sure was vast.
They went tapping down the road
Carrying the sharp load.

“Let’s go home now, honey.”
She huffed. 
“Quickly now, before it gets sunny!”
Up the stone pathway she ran
At the door they gave the town a brief scan
“I’m dreaming of a red Christmas.”

She turned the handle of the door
“This time of year is always such a chore!”
He sighed as he hopped from her back
She tossed down her big black sack.

He swept the dirt from his clothes
“The living should thank us”

She brushed her hair
“Those we killed were too much to bear”

She hopped up on the windowsill
“They made me positively ill”

She stared out into space
“And…back to my loving place”
She turned to her evil little doll
He leaned on the wall.

“Wanna open presents now?”
He smiled
“My goodness, child”
He laughed quietly under his breath
“What a quick transition from the subject of death!”

~Disclaimer: Though I found this piece among my old documents I doubt if it is mine. I am not this wicked 😉

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Repeat After Me

Vitamin D. Sunlight. Go
outside. Get a good night

of sleep. Not too good.

Not shades drawn forever
good. Not like you used to.

Open the windows.

Buy more houseplants.
Breathe. Meditate. (One day,

you will no longer be

afraid of being alone
with your thoughts.)

Exercise. Actually exercise

instead of just googling it.
Eat well. Cook for yourself.

Organize your closet, the

garage. Drink plenty of water
and repeat after me:

I am not a problem

to be solved. Repeat after me:
I am worthy I am worthy I am

neither the mistake nor

the punishment. Forget to take
vitamins. Let the houseplant die.

Eat spoonfuls of peanut butter.

Shave your head. Forget
this poem. It doesn’t matter–

there is no wrong way

to remember the grace of your
own body; no choice

that can unmake itself.

There is only now, here,
look: you are already

forgiven.

― Sierra De Mulder

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The Lost Button

I found it under the couch. Perhaps

it was taking a nap there, neglected

among the feral dust beasts. I heard

the metal clink as it was roused,

the vacuum choking on the shell

of plastic like a wounded animal.

I picked it up, felt its pebbled skin

against my fingertips.

I remembered the shirt,

its mate – how it used to fit alongside

its brothers, dutiful and plain,

but in the heat of the moment

torn and tossed aside, your hands

in a clumsy frenzy against my breast.

I imagine the sharp pain of release,

the long, arcing flight across

the living room – it landed on its

flat, sullen face and skittered

under the sofa.

By then we had fallen to our desire,

the bedsprings creaking to echo

our lust. I wonder

if the button watched us, hurt and forgotten,

blamed us, like a child blames his parents

for casting him out of the womb –

a voyeur with empty eyes, broken thread

for nerves, and no voice to cry out:

“Stop, how could you?

You’re making a mistake.”

but it’s powerless to stop us, to detain what is inevitable; like me, we cannot restrain something that meant to be. I cannot stop you from leaving me. I found the lost button, would somebody find me?

~ by sixhours via DevianArt

 

Thursday’s Artistic Hemorrhage

husband:

The Tent Pole Is Up,

The Canvas Is Spread,

The Hell With Breakfast,

Come Back To Bed.

wife:

Take The Tent Pole Down,

Put The Canvas Away,

The Monkey Had A Hemorrhage,

No Circus Today.

husband:

The Tent Pole’s Still Up,

And The Canvas Still Spread,

So Drop What You’re Doing,

And Come Give Me Some Head.

wife:

I’m Sure That Your Pole’s

The Best In The Land.

But I’m Busy Right Now,

So Do It By Hand!

~ rbxr

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Poems and Stories

Genuine artists talk to us about ourselves, more specifically about those parts of ourselves that we keep hidden – the strange parts, the dark parts. But these people wear their strangeness as a badge of honor, making it an important part of their identity. This is why they touch us. This is why we really want to be them. What we really envy is how open they are with their strangeness, when we are afraid. Deep down, we all know that one only becomes an individual when one stops hiding their strangeness.

– Anca Rotar  

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November

The wild November comes at last
      Beneath a veil of rain,
      The night wind blows its folds aside—
      Her face is full of pain.

The latest of her race, she takes
      The Autumn’s vacant throne;
      She has but one short moon to live,
      And she must live alone.

A barren realm of withered fields,
      Bleak woods, and falling leaves,
      The palest morns that ever dawned;
      The dreariest of eves.

It is no wonder that she comes,
      Poor month! with tears of pain;
      For what can one so hopeless do
      But weep, and weep again.

~R.H. Stoddard (1825–1903)

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