Mar 03

Swan Lake

We are women,
we are rising.

We are not chicks,
we are ducklings
that become swans.
Lakeside picnics
the lake bed undisturbed
by pollution.
Long necks always reaching
to see the bigger picture.
Beautifully imperfect.

We are palm trees
eating salt upon sand.

We are desert winds
chiding water.

We are jungle roots
stretching down
into the land.

We are mountain tops
giving birth to the sky.

We are dry grass baskets
woven by young hands, weathering paper cuts.

We are earth,
all women are our planet.

We are stones upturning by themselves
because you may not want
to hear our stories
but we will not let our voices
go unheard.
 
Mar 01

Poet Examples

Responses to the persons who stereotype poets

No, I do not wear a beret,
no hats actually except for my cap will political buttons covering it.
No, I am not depressed,
I was and that's why I write poetry,
it saved me.
No, I am not isolated,
I write communally in bright spaces.
No, I am not an old man,
I am a young girl, with wiser notions.
No, I am not a widow,
I am 13 years old and chest deep in love,
rising like the belated ocean.
No, I hate rhyming, except in my raps.
Yes, I write raps.
I also write haiku, limericks,
sonnets, and freestyle.
No, I didn't get kicked out of school,
I'm homeschooled, there is nothing but life
for me to ge kicked out of.
No, I'm not obsessed with the stars,
I'm obsessed with life and all other things.
No, I cannot write you a poem,
you don't understand how it works,
I am not a machine,
constantly spewing phrases
Mar 01

And Than You Told Me I was Perfect

And than you told me I was good,
and I liked it...
I guess.

Cause I don't really care about being good.

And I know
you really don't care either,
so I guess nothing happened?

...

And than you told me I was beautiful,
and I didn't believe you.
Because you've never said anything
was beautiful before...
why me?

...

And than you told me I was smart,
and I now don't feel like it
because I have no idea what's going on...
do you?

...

And than you told me I was perfect,
and I closed.
and you knew.
and
cared.

and
tried
to
fix
it.

And than I knew.
I am not perfect,
but I also know that something
close to perfect that you love...
something inexpiably meant to be...
can own no other word.



 
Feb 28

She Is Beautiful, But You Don't Hear Her

Earth is a beautiful woman,
because she is not perfect.

Humans do not see the beauty inside us,
overcritical and jealous, even of a body.

Sough out for her curves,
Earth prevails.
But it takes a toll,
humans leave their mark.
A trail of pollution and destruction
in their wake.
To enjoy her body but at her expense.

When she doesn't shave,
humans take it upon themselves to do it for her.
Forests cleared and trees cut down
surrendered from her skin.
If she fails to be beautiful...
they will not like it.

She is not perfect
and that is what makes her a
beautiful woman.

Drill holes in her body
hurt.
Making her an unwilling blood donor,
but they don't care.

Let her live her life.
Fair wages, freedom to birth control,
freedom to vote, freedom to choice,
freedom to breathe in her own atmosphere.
Feb 28

I Used To Think My Children Would Grow a Garden

I used to think my children would grow a garden.
Seeds sought out, writhing beneath the soil,
aching to be born into the sunshine.
Time flickering, restlessly, across the faces of sunflowers.

I used to think there would be space and time for a garden.
Just a plot of earth in which to call my world,
where my dinner table would spawn.
A simple arm wrapped across my weary shoulders.

I used to think I would have children.
My home would've become a wild garden.
I would've watered my little plants everyday,
tell them stories and not just at bedtime.
Teach them why they are not allowed outside,
free to roam the tireless meadows and fierce wilderness,
instead of locked indoors, spiteful and left to die.

The air is no longer breathable,
we would suffocate if we went outdoors...
but we're suffocating here too.
The water is poisoned,
Feb 24

I Am Treasure

I am treasure,
metals drip from the shoulders,
a waterfall of gold spills from my scalp.
Shapeless sapphires glitter
inset in my skull.
I hear jewels slip inside my stomach
whenever I speak.
A tickling laugh,
priceless.
My kneecaps are made of Thor's hammer
holding up my body,
making me electric.
My mouth,
pearls laden
upon gums of silver.
I wonder if I am the definition of
"pearly whites" and "a heart of gold"
but instead of a beat...
my chest sounds like a million coins
tumbling to accommodate
my ribcage of chain.
Feb 22

Sister, Begin Loving a Body

From beneath my waking toes
sprouts
(earth's hair)
whisper,
chilling the
eloquence of my
tongue
into a luminous silence.

The epiphany
of light,
gaining
momentum,
spiraling throughout
my curls and curves,
widening deeply
into my thighs and
breathing
my lungs for me.

Dragonflies
spread their
iridescent arms
and take on the wind.
Daring great breezes
to slip
upon their bodies.

Watch as dawn
awes you
once again,
why would she come back?
She is as
ineffable
as
rain.

We are
the
bread
without salt.
The wine
spilt from the
goblet.
The body
with
no
dirt
smudged
underneath
the
skin.

Sister Earth,
your flowers are beautiful.
So are your falls of water
and volcanic breasts
that feed your children
Feb 21

Between The Land

She does not drink cream in her coffee.
She does not sleep nor eat her way into dreams.
She does not look in the broken mirror
for she cannot bear the sight of her body without her baby.

She does not sleep because the rhythmic beat
of her baby's chest rising and falling is the only thing
keeping her hopeful enough to dream.

She does not drink cream in her coffee for
she would be taking a cow's milk meant for her calf
and it reminds her all too much of
her own milk clotting in her breast meant for her child.

Her chest is empty without her baby,
so are her hands, eyes and heart.
If her baby is not there to laugh with her,
she will not laugh.
The only thing keeping her baby from her is the wall of whiteness
looming over her dwarfed body.
She can hear her baby crying,
strung up in someone else's arms.
Her baby is between the land.
Feb 20

Bullet Rebellion

(I wrote this piece under the mentorship of Rajnii Eddins, thank you)

One day bullets will resign from guns,
rise up and say no to being spit out and
breaking and entering a body,
we're done with being used.

One day bombs will cut their lines
and blow out their fires, saying
we will not sacrifice ourselves to murder.
We will no longer slave against our own chains.

There will be a day when guns are brought to jail
and bullets to therapy, than sent home again
with a newfound knowledge of love.
When bombs decide they'd rather be
lawn decoration than artillery.
When spears accept their identity crisis
and pursue being arches married couples walk under.
When arrows are broken and made into a fire
where everyone is welcome to toast their cold toes
and cook their shared dinner.

There will be a day when soldiers lay down
Feb 20

Rap #1

So I wrote a rap, unfortunately I cannot access the audio for a live reading but I can post the lyrics, (just read it really fast hahaha)
I hope you enjoy :) p.s. I think I'm also going to make it longer

We are the millions,
from mouths
words for civilians,
pollution, dilution,
all 'round confusion.

They say listen to authority
it'll make y'all smarter,
but how can we hear
with our homes underwater?

Now them in the Whitehouse
they just don't understand,
they just don't get how to treat the land.
We are choking on ash,
knee deep in your trash,
our minds being poisoned by your dirty cash.

They go 'round prancing,
proud of their financing.
Saying "call us majesty now call us sire",
but we're drowning in flames,
our world is on fire!

 

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