Posted in Poetry

REMINDER

Unbroken Reverie

And if today,

All you did was

hold yourself together,

I’m proud of you

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Posted in Poetry

If I Had A Daughter

If I had a daughter

I would teach her

To love herself

For sometimes

The world won’t

Love you

Enough.

 

I would teach her

To make music

Out of nothing

And to sing songs

Of joy.

 

I would teach her

That it’s okay to

Not want to sing

Songs of joy

Sometimes.

 

I would teach her

To give and give

But to know to

Stop before giving

Herself up.

 

I would teach her

To know her body

Belongs to no one

But her and no one

Can take it without

Her permission.

 

I would teach her

To create landslides

And earthquakes

And floods just so

She can be heard.

 

I would teach her

To know the power

Of her voice and to

Take advantage of it

To help those

Disadvantaged.

 

I would teach her

To know that in

This patriarchal

Society, women

Need the support

Of other women

Going through the

Same troubles.

 

I would teach her

To know what

Exactly she is worth

And to never bargain

That for someone

Else’s gain.

 

I would teach her

That sometimes,

There are people

Like Hitler, but there

Are also people

Like Malala.

 

I would teach her

To cross her fingers

And knock on wood,

Because sometimes

Hope is enough.

 

I would teach her

That nothing is

Worth more than

Love but when

That love is

Weighing you

Down more than

Making you fly,

You must set it

Free.

 

I would teach her

Stories of Hercules

And Athena and

Zeus and Aphrodite

And hope one day,

She creates her

Own myth.

 

I would teach her

To take a pen

And write her

Own story, for

Nobody else

Should have

The right.

 

I would teach her

To paint the skies

With colours of

Her imagination,

The sky is the limit,

But not even that

Sometimes.


I would teach her 

That nothing is

More important

Than following

Your dreams and

Finding that pot

Of gold.

 

I would teach her

To kick this

Unfair, greedy

World in the

Ass and make

It her own.

Posted in Poetry

back to being plastic 

She hated living

In the dollhouse.

A veneer of normal

And just, perfect. But

If you looked a little

Longer, if you tried 

To pay attention, 

You could see

Their dimpled smiles

Straining and their eyes

Blank. Faking it till

They make it (how much

Longer?).

They didn’t talk, no,

For what would they

Talk about? Remember

How once upon a time

We were happy? Ha.

Me neither.

What would they

Talk about? Hey,

Remember when we

Didn’t bruise so easily?

 She didn’t talk, but

She watched. She could

See more than what they

Were showing.

Red eyes, closed doors,

Unpaid bills, beer bellies,

The stench of bad decisions,

Rotting apple pies and 

Quiet infidelities.

She hides everything she

Really wants to say in

Her writing. Poison

In a cupcake. Peekaboo,

I see you. 

Shh, they’re looking,

Smile, laugh, we’re a

Happy family. (Who’re

We trying to kid?)

She wonders if the 

Walls could talk.

Oh, they’d sing songs

Of fake love and 

Whispered shouts, 

Of bruises of the 

Skin and wounds of  

The heart, of empty

Bottles and empty

Eyes. A choir of

Get up, you can

Make it, you’ll be

Able to leave one 

Day.’

She’s never ever

Going to be able

To leave the 

Dollhouse, but 

Hope counts for 

Something and 

Maybe one day,

She’ll be able to

Turn her back on 

The hatred and 

Let her wings

Heal and take her

Far far away to a 

Place where hands

Didn’t always mean 

Violence, where mothers

Did more than just stare 

And where love could 

Be handed out with some

To spare for yourself. 


Posted in Poetry

flowers are overrated anyway 

The day the flowers 

In the vase died was

The day everything 

Felt okay for the first 

Time in so long.
He’d gotten her a 

Bouquet of tulips, 

Oh, her favourite flower 

A smile on his face and 

Lies on his lips.
The day the flowers 

In the vase died was

The first time a

Smile graced her 

Face after weeks. 
He said he loved her;

He apologised for 

Everything and then

He left. Needless to say, 

She didn’t like tulips anymore.
The day the flowers 

In the vase died 

Was the day she 

Felt good for the first

Time in so long. 
She was at work and 

That coward, he 

Packed his bag and 

Just left. She came 

Back to an empty house.
The day the flowers 

In the vase died 

Was the day her 

Heart wasn’t as 

Broken as before.
She was so angry, 

He said he loved her, 

He said he needed her, 

And he left. She burnt

His face out of her pics.
The day the flowers 

In the vase died 

Was the day she 

Was whole again 

For the first time in ages.
She could still smell

Him and she rubbed 

Him out for he 

Left. She left a tulip 

At his new girl’s door.
Hey! I hope you liked this! Also, I’d just like to say, thanks so much for a hundred followers?! I love you guys! 

Posted in Poetry, Rant

She’s Such A Slut (oh my god)

Today, a boy came

Up to me and told me

One of my best friends

Was a slut.

I don’t think I’ll ever

Talk to him again.

She’s a smart, funny,

Amazing, sociable person;

But the one thing he notices,

The one thing he brings to

My attention as if I care:

She’s a slut.

It makes me wonder,

It truly does, how just about

Everyone thinks it’s okay to

Make other’s private matters,

Their business. No, you don’t

Have the right to create an

Opinion on something that

Doesn’t affect you and hurts

Someone else in the process.

No one realizes how much it

Hurts someone when their

Friends, the people they thought

They could trust, whisper

Behind their back, and sometimes

In front of their face: she’s such a

Slut, oh my god.

And it’s funny, it truly is,

How when a guy dates a lot of

Girls: he’s such a player, woah,

Mad, how’s he do that, shit,

Congrats.

But hey, when a girl just even

Talks to a lot of guys, it’s all:

She’s such a slut, what the fuck,

She’s banged three guys this

Week, can you believe it?

No, you don’t have the right

To label someone without

Knowing anything about them,

And what if she banged three guys

In a week, how’s that affecting you?

Maybe it was one, maybe five,

Why is it any of your business to

Poke your nose into?

Don’t look at someone and only

See their sexual matters. They’re

More than make out sessions

And blow jobs. You’re more than

Bitching and nosiness. Aren’t you?

 

 

 

Posted in Poetry

Great Love Story 

I want you

To be my


Great Love Story



(And all the other clichés.)



I want you to be


My One that could’ve,


Should’ve left but didn’t.



(Thank you for staying.)



People will say,


“Fifty years? And


They’re still in love?”



(You’ve got me thinking about the future.)(I didn’t think I could.)



Love me now,


Love me then,


Love me forever.



(Just love me.)



If we broke up?


I’d miss your kisses


And your laugh.



(And the both of them together.)



Please don’t go away.


I’d be sad and I don’t


want to be sad anymore.



(You make me happy.)



You promised you wouldn’t


Let me fall and yet,


I managed to do just that.



(And I’m still falling.)(Please catch me.)



Love used to feel


Complicated, I was


Terrified.



(I’m not scared anymore.)(I love you.)



When I listen to


Love songs, I see


Your hands.



(Your face. Your smile. Your eyes. You.)



If I said that I


Want to marry you,


What would you say?



(Are you saying you want to marry me?)



We’re not gonna last,


You know it and so do I;


We’ll go our own ways.



(I hope our paths will cross again.)



And sure, I’ll be sad when


There’s no other


Alternative than goodbye.



(Ha, sad. Understatement of the year.)



You aren’t going to be


My forever but at least


You’ll be my something.



(And that’s more than I can ask for.)



I want you


To be my


Great Love Story.



(One day, I’m gonna have a life without you.)(I hope that day never comes.)



(Credits to Rev for being head over heels in love.) 

Posted in Poetry

Their Daughter 

What if they

Cried when

I was born?


What if they


Weren’t only


Tears of joy?




What if they


Were tears


For their


Daughter


Who should


Have been


There to


Smile at


Her new


Sister.




For their


Daughter


Who should


Have been


There to


Hold her


Hand and


Giggle about


How small


It is.




For their


Daughter


Who should


Have been


There.




For their


Daughter.


May 8, 1998 to July 29, 2001.

Miss you, di.

Posted in Poetry

Tired Girls 

They’d play silly games,

Their eyes shining,

Knees scratched from

A day in the sand box.

Smiles for everyone

And lo, some more.

Tired girls, happy

For they loved.
Tag and hide and seek,

Duck duck goose.

Shouts of glee and

Screams — “You’re it!”

Picnics with ice cream,

Pizza and barbecue.

Tired girls, happy

For they loved.

 

Backyard games and

Hysterical laughter;

Whispered promises:

“I won’t tell anyone.”

And then telling

Everyone by mistake.

Tired girls, happy

For they loved.

 

Broken legs, sighs,

Sweat and tears;

Talking about

Everything and nothing.

Easter egg hunts,

Drive in movies.

Tired girls, happy

For they loved.

 

Visits to the library,

Smelling the books.

Playing with magnets

And marbles and stones:

“Here, catch this! Oh no!

I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

Tired girls, happy

For they loved.