She walks with her head held high, with the majesty of birds of prey. With her hips swinging rhythmically, she commands any room she enters, turning heads for different reasons. Her gait emulates American bald eagles, yet society solely see her as a peacock.
A woman can only be pretty, they say her beauty is all that defines her. These double standards are restrictive, and prevent girls from becoming hawks; it forces them into a brand, then keeps them locked up in a box.
Pigeonholed by the age of three, young women are being programmed to believe they can only be desired for their looks.
They are discouraged from being bold, ridiculed for being brave but males—they can be anything and are supported by their peers.
For a female to be confident like a crow, or as self-important as a snowy owl is demeaning. She must possess the grace of a crane, or like a bird of paradise, she should be aesthetically appealing.
Some of her sisters even keep their distance, choosing to side with their oppressors who coop them up like chickens. What they fail to see is that these false concepts were created by frightened men in suits in conference rooms, and board room meetings.
They were designed to keep women inferior, and confined to lives centred on their wombs which they cannot even control. Unjust ideals invented to prevent equality, to ensure that daughters of Eve stay in their lanes that lead to dead ends on one way streets.
For a sister or a mother to aspire to fly is laughable to men who have never even attempted to take flight. They think their superiority is innate, because their fathers tell them lies that are then corroborated by heads of state.
Whether equality is ever achieved or not, I still believe it is more admirable to be a bird with clipped wings who is determined to soar, than a cowardly ostrich with his head buried deep in the dirt.
It is still preferable to see these young ladies rallying together as ravens, instead of conceding to defeat from their counterparts, cackling geese who have become complacent.
Comfortable with the idea of spending their existence as common pheasants instead of daring to be different. Wrens whose wings were rendered obsolete, toucans who traded in beaks for pressed white dress shirts, higher wages, and a false concept of masculinity that is so weak.
They are threatened by free women, like the huntress lioness who provides for her hungry children. Men are emasculated by matriarchs who are self-sufficient as their existence relies on feeling needed. A woman who prevails without a male unnerves them to their very core.
Without the women they marginalized, upon whom they are still dependent, these daft dodo birds helplessly become endangered. They are then sentenced to death by the same double standards they delivered, a fate more bittersweet than it is sour.
Even the most explicitly misogynistic males transform into mourning doves once they are deprived of their subjugated swans' direction. Suddenly, there is no evidence of their strength and they are lost without the guidance of the quetzal queens they counted as mere possessions.
Accident-prone yet bulletproof, resilience courses through my veins. After plucking out the shrapnel from my own Hell-Bent self-destruction, all I was left with was me. Through embracing my darkness, I found the light. Here lie a sordid collection of POETRY, PROSE, AND REFLECTIONS on the traumas & triumphs along the way.
Friday, October 21, 2016
Massacre.
A massacre pardoned
conjures up genocides.
I am cursed by this
forgiving nature;
it corrodes me.
Had you shot me
with silver bullets,
I would still kiss
your smoking gun.
Violence, like yours,
should not be forgot.
But somehow, my head
always turns to ignore it.
As though, looking away
negates its existence.
I could be between
your sharp teeth,
and convince myself
you did not mean it.
To say I am naive
is an understatement.
Not even a fool
could be so dense.
Like a masochist,
I return for a second helping
of your appetizing abuse,
then still come to your defense.
I swallow every bite,
savouring the taste as I chew.
No excuse too contrived
when I sacrifice myself
for your illness.
Now I burn at the stake
for crimes I did not commit.
My only regret remains
in believing you were innocent.
conjures up genocides.
I am cursed by this
forgiving nature;
it corrodes me.
Had you shot me
with silver bullets,
I would still kiss
your smoking gun.
Violence, like yours,
should not be forgot.
But somehow, my head
always turns to ignore it.
As though, looking away
negates its existence.
I could be between
your sharp teeth,
and convince myself
you did not mean it.
To say I am naive
is an understatement.
Not even a fool
could be so dense.
Like a masochist,
I return for a second helping
of your appetizing abuse,
then still come to your defense.
I swallow every bite,
savouring the taste as I chew.
No excuse too contrived
when I sacrifice myself
for your illness.
Now I burn at the stake
for crimes I did not commit.
My only regret remains
in believing you were innocent.
Aura.
Searching through the same old subterfuge,
bits of shrapnel cut into my day old skin.
Defiantly determined to dodge the deluge,
I refuse to drown despite being unable to swim.
A pair of possessed peepers watch my dance,
branches bristle then crunch under unseen feet.
I am on auto-pilot. Failure's left me in a trance,
as I am hollow as the corpses of rotten trees.
I grab a handful of gangrene covered leaves—
squeeze every tear out of my stony heart.
Avert your gaze while this lifelong widow grieves,
with heaving chest, I fall apart.
This enchanted forest is haunted by my remorse,
unable to escape its curse unless I learn;
the end will come once I bury my dead, beaten horse,
until then, the world will not stop burning.
bits of shrapnel cut into my day old skin.
Defiantly determined to dodge the deluge,
I refuse to drown despite being unable to swim.
A pair of possessed peepers watch my dance,
branches bristle then crunch under unseen feet.
I am on auto-pilot. Failure's left me in a trance,
as I am hollow as the corpses of rotten trees.
I grab a handful of gangrene covered leaves—
squeeze every tear out of my stony heart.
Avert your gaze while this lifelong widow grieves,
with heaving chest, I fall apart.
This enchanted forest is haunted by my remorse,
unable to escape its curse unless I learn;
the end will come once I bury my dead, beaten horse,
until then, the world will not stop burning.
Monday, October 17, 2016
Rust.
All we can do is dream,
keep chasing after silver streams—
dollar signs flash as we speed by.
The only certainty is that we die.
Distorted reality blurs meaning,
tragedies occur without reason.
Hope waivers, careening,
The truth is rarely appeasing.
Tempered glass shatters;
the shards on the floor look like diamonds.
Survival is all that matters,
when my head hides wailing sirens.
One day, my sun refused to rise,
broken down from shining over lies.
Nightfall never left my side,
no visibility in a charcoal sky.
Though I braved storms
earthquakes, and landslides,
suddenly the feather wind
even bruised my pride.
What do you tell two tired feet,
or hands wrinkled from wringing?
Not even paradise itself could
stop my shuttered eyes from stinging.
When faith runs out,
carrying on seems pointless.
Sometimes success even
prefers avoidance.
That is when I start to sink.
I melt like wax on the parquet flooring.
Scrutinize every crack then
accost myself for ignoring it.
I become a magnet for suffering,
repelled by my own self-detriment.
Copper, as I blush then rust.
Seizing up, I crumble to dust.
keep chasing after silver streams—
dollar signs flash as we speed by.
The only certainty is that we die.
Distorted reality blurs meaning,
tragedies occur without reason.
Hope waivers, careening,
The truth is rarely appeasing.
Tempered glass shatters;
the shards on the floor look like diamonds.
Survival is all that matters,
when my head hides wailing sirens.
One day, my sun refused to rise,
broken down from shining over lies.
Nightfall never left my side,
no visibility in a charcoal sky.
Though I braved storms
earthquakes, and landslides,
suddenly the feather wind
even bruised my pride.
What do you tell two tired feet,
or hands wrinkled from wringing?
Not even paradise itself could
stop my shuttered eyes from stinging.
When faith runs out,
carrying on seems pointless.
Sometimes success even
prefers avoidance.
That is when I start to sink.
I melt like wax on the parquet flooring.
Scrutinize every crack then
accost myself for ignoring it.
I become a magnet for suffering,
repelled by my own self-detriment.
Copper, as I blush then rust.
Seizing up, I crumble to dust.
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