Tag Archives: feminism

Questing

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Recently I’ve had a series of questions come over me. Like why doesn’t anyone ever say “Man, she’s got a really big pair of ovaries”? Where’s the value in having a strong sense of femininity. How is my drive to nurture somehow lesser than when compared to anothers drive to destroy? Where’s my kind of toy? I wanna Mama Hawa doll. Someone who kisses the bruises when a whole NATION falls. I want to see pictures of Alice Paul on nursery walls. I want to see those who answer the call-Not to arms or to harm, but to heal the harried & hurry along the helping hands of change. And why is that strange? Let me say it plain: I don’t want the girls of this world growing thinking or knowing that being Woman means they need to be weak. I don’t want to see people tremble when I speak. I want them to feel shame when I grow silent. I want to make my name a shout out against violence. I want to bring Lady Liberty to life and have her shine a light into all the darkened corners of this world. I want to uncurl the edges of the map and take an erasure to it’s borders. I want to sweep away the pain of war and leave behind a sense of order. I want to give no quarter when quelling the qualms and calamity that are constantly slammed at me from the mouthpieces of multimedia. I want you to see the face of your mother when I speak to ya`. For my words to breed like bacteria; infecting all I touch with a deeper sense of human compassion. I want to take kindness off of ration and stop this rationalization that this is how it has to be. I want women to be free. Unfettered from the confines of smaller minds and mealy mouths that tell them they need to keep to their own place. I want to heal the human race by lifting up the strength and beauty of my sex. I want women to realize that mother really does know best, and life is at it’s best not when she’s beating breast, but when she stands up for what is right. I don’t want to fight. I want to rock you through the night & sooth your weary brow. I want to talk you into sight & show you that this is how we can all be healed: Woman revealed and not reviled. The simple beauty in the nursing of a child. In the nurses and the teachers that take the time to reach to strangers just to let them know that they are loved. I want to bomb this world with hugs. I want to stop the rising tide of endless queries that quest in search of the value of who I am. Because I am not a question. I am the sheer expression of a light that sheds destruction and fills a life that’s barren of. I am not a question. I am forgiveness of transgressions and the bittersweet concession that we need to rise above. I am not a question. I am the last bastion of salvation that can tie together nations with brotherhood and love. I am not a question. I am an answer.

Bitter fruit

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I used to say that men aged like wine. And women aged like unpreserved fruit. Now these concepts aren’t really mine, but I still maintain their truth. Because whether a fellow gets sour or mellow, he still obtains some use. But when a women gets dried up or sags down-she gets traded for something new.  Like fruit. Tossed out and composted then walked on like she’s dirt-the condition of her flesh impresses-on others what she’s worth. She’s cursed with the fate of a sell-by date, and SOME are packed up and shipped off and sold by weight. And they say, that it’s ok. We’re the fairest sex so it’s best that we’re treated this way.  A major in commodity, we’re not permitted our anonymity. The fruit of this womb is set to consume, and I shouldn’t presume, to say what comes through. But it’s untrue. Cause I’m made of meat and bleed, didn’t come from dirt or seed. And I PLEAD with this patriarchal society to see ME. Beyond the flesh that bruises is a person who thinks and feels and chooses, and I think I feel my choices being taken away from me. And you call me a peach, and I scream because a peach don’t bleed. when you cut it. And a seed won’t grow just cause you love it. And you think you know, but you can shove it because I am so fucking far above it. And my sisters, and mothers, and lovers and friends weren’t born on this planet to be ate up by men. So I mean what I say when I’m talking to you, a woman’s a person and not some sort of fruit. So you’re fucked for biting more than you can chew-Cause this peach is fighting, and she’s coming for you.