Sheroism.

If Coco Chanel played by the rules herself
then there would be no iconic Number Five,
but ever since this mademoiselle raised Hell,
the fashion world was fiercely brought to life.

Indira Gandhi's ruthlessness
is how she rewrote India's history,
waging war for independence,
she was a state of emergency.

Dancing her way to the top of the charts,
Madonna's world tours sold out at every stop.
She used sex as a weapon to open her heart,
until she became the reigning queen of pop.

Refusing to slave another day, 
Harriet Tubman was determined to be free,
this renegade helped others run away,
on a route to the north country.

Some women prefer chains and oppression, 
so they silently accept all that is unfair.
This is why the good girls go to Heaven, 
but the bad girls go everywhere.

Nefarious.

I suppose even the most nefarious entities are desperate for an identity, 

creating their own corroded communities through engaging in impunity.

Erecting idols of their enemies & slandering their friends, 

scrutinizing all the others when it should be them under the lens. 

Delusion, like psychosis, has dust mites thinking they're superior;

as they sit and compare battle scars although they're dazed & delirious. 

Their obsession with made up offenses dines on them like a predator,

until a patchwork of paranoia peers back from every reflection.

You wanted to curse others, 

now you got it back times three, 

abandoned by your own mother, 

now all you have left is me. 

Reader beware: 

you're long overdue for a scare. 

Surprise, you spooky bitch, 

bet you thought you'd seen the last of me.

Cockroaches possess the common sense to evade certain death, 

and yet these criminals lack the discipline to not end up behind bars again. 

Pitiful, y'all look like idiots—and then, 

you continue burning all the candles at both ends.

Overdose on your internal ugliness—

your looks could kill like Fentanyl.

Poison's preferred over your name;

even arsenic has more appeal.

Your sticks and stones playground name-calling games are primitive and lame, 

as you engage in hide and seek-like child's play, I get at you with grenades. 

Then for my grand finale, I shower you in fireworks and flames, 

as Satan's symphony welcomes you into your grave. 

The Earth erupted in uproarious applause, 

as soon as it was liberated of you & all your flaws,

the world finally rejoiced, and knew peace

once your screams echoed from Gambia, 

all the way to Greece.

I bring brilliance while you obsess about irrelevant events, 

you and your network of invalids couldn't even win dumpster dive pageants. 

As I observe you from the upper decks and echelons, you sink; I stay afloat.

You tear down completely innocent allies around you in accusation, 

isn't it time you took accountability for your own reputation? 

If you build it they will come to tear it down then ask for more, 

is it any wonder the wicked wail they're victims above all?

x

Validated (Part II)

Every desert is testament to her understated elegance; even whilst devoid of rain, their roses still bloom in resonance.

With the majesty of medieval monarchy, the moon itself marvels at her magnificent mystery; conducting the stars as they sparkle brightest for her, since she is a symphony.

With every cup of her you sip—you slip further under her spell. You and all your fellow men were too quick to dismiss her as just another raven-haired rebel.

One thing becomes clear as you are hit by the guilt from her dreams you denied: you were threatened by the brilliance that blazes bravely behind her Bedouin eyes.

It is easy and quite simple to embrace equality; even the blind can see behind your problematic patriarchy. You are angered by the branch, despite your own status as the tree.

It's time you knew the truth and learned this ancient secret that was omitted from the holy texts:"Without her, even a rose is haggard—there is no beauty in her absence."

x

Vindicated.

Every desert is a woman—each one, mysterious, and alluring. No cartel or caravan could capture her despite their concerted efforts. Instead, she has them captivated; they covet her like treasure.

But she will not be bought by any bearded Bedouin! She cannot be collected in jars, or hidden away in some harem. Her Sahara will remain as free as the Arabian horse; only without a saddle can one truly experience the world.

She doesn't mind that her hair is streaked with dirt, or that the soles of her bare feet have turned black. Listen closely and you'll even hear them sizzling from the scorching Saudi sun.

A sly grin appears on her face as she performs a serpentine dance, intoxicating.
Like smoke, she moves with sinuous grace, slithering smoothly through these sombre Syrian streets.

Watch as her hips become hypnotists who stun through spins and twists like a mirage.
Listen to the jingle of the coins on her belt;
the same gold and silver some sultan or sheikh felt should measure her worth.

With battle cry, she removes her veil in violent defiance and whips it at the ground.
Unwilling to be a victim anymore by bleeding in the sand, her only demand is her freedom from their wicked government.