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a man is not a boy
who tells his female classmates
she cant play football
because she is a she
he doesn't tell a girl
that her favorite color cant be blue
because it is a boys color
a man is not a boy
because a man does not whistle
when a pretty girl walks by
doesn’t shout a comment at a woman
simply going for a run
a man is not a boy
because a man
does not make a woman
the punchline to their sick jokes
real men do not victimize themselves
for their own wrongdoing
real men know how to follow the bare minimum
real men know how to act
know how to coexist with a female
and woman appreciate real men.
the red bead bracelet
is a bracelet i made myself,
with the razors of my pencil sharpeners,
the beads of blood covering my wrist,
the red blood being the sole reason
i dont show my wrists without being covered
by some sort of sweater or jacket
because if i don't
i get made fun of or questioned
i am asked, why?
why did i pierce my clean, ****** wrists
with driving razors through my skin
the answer is because
i wish i weren't here.
because i don't feel
loved enough to not do it
i am ill, yes, I know that by now,
my therapy sessions prove it
the calls up to the office prove it
me, a kid on suicide watch in my own home
prove it all.
i can hardly keep my door shut
without getting yelled at by my parents
i know i am ill
but i am not
the deranged monster i am made out to be
that is what the red bead bracelet is for.
to be a woman is to perform
to learn to dress for men,
to perform for the male gaze
to be asked by aunts,
“when am i going to get grandchildren?”
and to be told by uncles
that ive grown in all the right places
im not even able to look at the clothes
that hot hands had burnt through
touching, feeling, squeezing
remembering their hands on me
i don't want revenge,
i just want to take a shower
his lips curl into a whistle as i walk the street
“looking good, baby”
im wearing sweats and a hoodie
“smile more!”
make me laugh.
i don't feel like it right now, i say
“it'll be quick, please” he replies back
and i'm left feeling disgusted the next day
maybe i'll take another shower.
scrolling on my phone, a cute video of a little girl
I go to check the comments
“game is game”
“if she can bleed she can breed”
i close my phone, scared what this world has come to
my friend tells a story about how she got *****
and crazy enough, we all relate
and with girls we've never even met before
bonding over our **** cases
“don’t sit like that,” says my grandmother
“it's not lady-like.”
it doesn't matter how far i slouch in my seat
how much i manspread
even if its not lady-like, he’ll do it anyways
because he takes ******* as an invitation
even from a young girl
who doesn't even know how to count all the way to fifty
“dont tell your parents– it's our secret”
hands cover my mouth as i tell myself it's normal
this is what family does, what men do
and suddenly i'm too afraid to look at my own father
i talk to a guy, he's funny
and then he makes a **** joke
i thought you were one of the good ones
foolish
i live each day in fear
is it safe to walk out?
no, we can't live there
the ****** assault cases are high.
when will we ever be free?
when will women be equal to men
and not just equal to pleasure?
filled with rage, i remind myself
i cannot do anything.
because
to be a woman is to perform
Lost Dreamer May 3
I have dealt with many things,
but to you I am just dramatic,
a lier even.
Whenever I open my heart,
you shove it into a box,
making it harder every time.

"I'm Depressed"
I finally tell you,
seeking comfort in your words,
even though they scare me further.

But, you let me down,
you told me the words I feared the most.
                  "Your just a teenager, you don't know what that means"

Then, what's wrong with me?
Why do I dream of jumping off,
of never coming back.

Maybe I'm just being a teen,
or maybe that's just a lie.
Damocles Apr 29
When did time become cruel
Stealing moments away
As the years clock out your youth,

Every bird flies away from the nest
Every cub becomes a bear,
When the rivers run quick
Don’t be afraid to swim the currents
And find where you fit in.

If wishing wells were real
I’d pour my wealth into the bottom.
I’d wish to go back to the time that we lost
Watching you blossom from just a wee bud
Give you all that I knew at the cost
Knowing some truths hurts more than fiction.

Remembering when you couldn’t stand tall
And the smallest little smirk when you walked vs crawl
Seeing the way you made sense of this all
Like the world was a puzzle you always knew how to solve
And now that you’re here I can’t shake this off
A fear that you’ll never need me again and I fall
Down to my knees and pray that you know.:

I love you, my little bean

And should you ever call
If ever in need —
I can be your shield and armor
Need a sword, I’ll be there and nothing can harm us
Swing for the head and we’ll **** this hydra
I’ll be there to be a prop if you need to stand taller.

Together, maybe we can slow down time,
But no matter the weather, I’ll be there rain or shine
If no one says it, then I’ll yell it louder.
I AM SO PROUD OF YOU BABY!
My beloved daughter.
Time moves so fast and stealthily...how did we already get here? I'm proud of you Bean. Wrote this a little early just because the realization hit and man does it both hurt and feel good.
Vincenzo Apr 26
The fire escape, a rusted iron vine,
Clings to brick the color of old wine.
Nineteen years, a pigeon on the sill,
Watching Little Italy stand still, and thrill.

The scent of garlic, oregano's hum,
Escapes Sal's butcher shop, where cleavers come
Down ******* lamb, a rhythmic, meaty beat,
Mingling with Vespa engines on Mott Street.

Grandma's window, lace a dusty white,
Whispers secrets in the fading light.
A rosary clutched tight within her hand,
Praying for safe passage through this land
Of honking taxis, shouts across the way,
And boys with slicked-back hair who come to play
Dominoes loud beneath the flickering lamp,
Their laughter echoing, a youthful, joyful stamp.

The bakery's sweet breath, a sugary haze,
Cannoli shells in golden, sugared maze.
I linger there, the coins within my jeans
Burning a hole with teenage, hungry scenes
Of sfogliatelle crisp, a ricotta dream,
A taste of home, it always would seem.

Down Bleecker Street, the music starts to bleed
From smoky clubs, a saxophone's wild creed.
Too young to enter, but I stand and stare,
At shadows dancing, lost within the air.
A yearning stirs, a restless, teenage fire,
To break these borders, climb a little higher
Than tenement roofs, the laundry in the breeze,
To find what waits beyond these crowded trees
Of brick and stone, this heritage so deep,
While Little Italy holds secrets that I keep.

The rumble of the subway, underground,
A constant pulse, a never-ending sound.
It carries faces, stories yet untold,
Like mine, at nineteen, brave and slightly bold.
I kick a loose stone on the cracked sidewalk,
Another night is coming, like a hawk
Descending softly on the city's gleam.
Nineteen in Little Italy, a vibrant, waking dream.
Nothing beats little Italy, or NYC! How ya doiiin?
Carol DeWald Apr 22
Apart
Blaming
Conditional.
Defined by
Expectations
Fears
Grades.
Heavily moving
Into dark.
Joined by anxiety
Keeping it all in.
Longing.
Mad mix of feelings
Never far away.
Only living to please
Pursuing ways to disappear.
Questioning the established.
Repeating behavior.
Secrets.
Temptress
Underneath the mask.
Victimized.
Willingly responsible.
eXit from religion.
Yearning to be special.
Zero confidence.

cbd03/28/25
MacGM Apr 12
Since it was such a beautiful day,
my high school art teacher had us go out to sketch a section of the school.
I have reason to believe we were faced away from the scenery the entire time.
Someway,
somehow,
the sweet sublime of noontime in spring was consumed completely by unbridled,
uncleansed boredom.
We stared down the ugly,
open hallway that our teacher almost tried to persuade us is pretty.
The dirt between the two sidewalks had been so pressed down from rain and being trampled,
it would often be confused for the sidewalk when students didn’t watch their step.
The pebbles by where we sat were covered in dust,
about as dry as the spot made me feel.
There were a few trees that stood like awkward,
gawking freshman boys.
The hall was lined with faded paint,
and asymmetrically placed doors,
windows,
and polls.
Altogether it was an urban obstruction.
Stuti Apr 11
Thought I could never be enough
Smart enough to be one of them
Good enough to be praised
All these thoughts feels like
I'm being caged..

Tried to get out of this
But the bars of the cage were so rigid
I couldn't made an escape
Everything made my mind too timid...

Now the cage is being crowded
With each and every passing day
Taking peace from my inner child
More and more far away.....
sena Apr 7
late in the night quiet whispers echo through the house 
intrigued, i sit at the top of the stairs listening to your conversation
and since then i regretted it.

i've been the daughter that sits at the top of the stairs since i was 11
and i've never stopped 

for 6 years now,
i sit; hearing how you talk about me...
to your friends 
to your aunt's 
to dad 
to anyone that will hear you
and over the years i've learned you like to broadcast my sins
my mistakes 
you only see me as gossip for when the conversation falls quiet

last night i sat at the top of the stairs 
and that was my final straw
pure ******* rage grew inside of me 
almost hate.
you painted the most appalling picture of me
as if im still that girl
as if i hadnt gone to extreme lengths to get rid of who i used to be 

last night, i cried myself to sleep 
and when tears ran out;
the sorrow the lonliness settled in my heart 
as if they had a home there. 


i cant wait for the day i leave and never talk to you again.
surprise surprise another poem abt how much i cant stand my mom
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