“As women we have been taught to ignore our differences.”
As depressed women, we have been taught to pretend dying is a common hope.
As queer women we have been taught to fall in love with a boy we can’t stand.
As depressed, queer women we have been taught to spill our sadness into the sex we’re supposed to have.
As women in a nation of men, we have been taught “violence [is] a tool to keep women in their place.”
As depressed, queer women in a nation of men, we have been taught to disguise the pain, disguise the love, disguise the apparent need to rise to power.
Lava inside a dormant volcano.
Bubbling beneath a frozen smile.
Overflowing with satisfied tastebuds
that are experienced but know the taste of a disintegrating rock.
My socioeconomic class blinds the pain
that glares behind my crumbling house.
Liberty in the sidewalks as I walk down the street
doesn’t delegitimize the struggles
I can never let slip through my fingers.
Money can’t buy laughter that doesn’t exist.
Knowledge can’t give me the answers to discover happiness.
“Survival is not an academic skill.”
If I were starving,
would it be okay that I’m drowning in the air around me?
Lava inside a dormant volcano.
Bubbling beneath a frozen smile.
Overflowing with pale, curved letters
that are blocking the view of the dying mountain.
My race blinding the pain
that shines through my dry eyes.
Blonde hair and pale skin
doesn’t delegitimize the days my mind has died in bed.
Whiteness doesn’t mask the villains that are colorblind.
The criminals on TV with their fictitious agony
doesn’t create false agony in my brain.
If I were black
would it be okay that I’m suffocating
looking at the noose that will never hang from my fan?
Lava inside a dormant volcano.
Bubbling beneath a frozen smile.
Overflowing with feminine words
that are locked behind brainwashing television screens.
My gender blinding the pain
that radiates from the sweat in my pores.
Pink bow in my hair when I was two
doesn’t delegitimize the scars you can’t see.
My period doesn’t demonize me twelve months out of the year.
Your excuse that my inner drama queen
is showing, doesn’t change the fact that my inner devil is as well.
The reasoning that my muscles just aren’t strong enough,
my mind just isn’t tough enough.
If I were a boy
would it be okay that I’m planning the placement of my grave?
If I were a boy
would you limit the number of syllables
that come out of my mouth?
I was born with too many words.
People use them against me,
without telling me their new definitions.
Giving me the puzzle
they use to create my body,
with the final piece stuck
between a rock and a hard place.
Using my fear of acceptance
to “cripple [me] under the spell of perfectionism.”
Exposing myself to two people was too much,
but experience with one tongue just wasn’t enough.
The tank top covering the push-up bra I didn’t want you to see was too much,
but my crop top and high waisted shorts just wasn’t enough.
My letters spell out the ideal,
my actions seem to lose a syllable.
I was born with too many words.
People use them against me,
binding my tongue with words I don’t mean.
Giving me the weight
they use to push me into the ground,
thinking my strength cracks
between a rock and a hard place.
Using my fear of “no”
to melt my muscles in your mind.
Drowning me in alcohol
to create an innocent action from weakness.
Drawing new strength on you in pen,
while erasing mine drawn in pencil.
My letters spell out independent,
my actions seem to lose a syllable.
I was born with too many words.
People use them against me,
staining my clothes with their undesired yelling.
Giving me the compliments
they use to rise above whilst their eyes are glued
on my breasts that they squeeze
between a rock and a hard place.
Using my fear of strangers
to destroy my vision of superiority.
Shouting out your uncensored opinions
but muting your hierarchy when he walks next to me.
stomping me into the ground
because my stomach is out for the world.
My letters spell out equality,
my actions seem to lose a syllable.
My letters spell out acceptance,
my actions seem to lose a syllable.
Somewhere between yes and no I fall,
and your eyes can’t see that line.
My muscles have always throbbed for variety.
You question the validity because
fictional movie characters
spell my name with their imaginary affection.
I have made movies in the air that you can’t breathe.
I have created people in the water that you can’t drink.
And you tell me I lost my imagination,
you’re blind when it comes to foreign ideas.
I learned something important,
as I was hiding myself behind bars of
created rules and excluding instructions.
Nothing is ever made up,
our imagination, our dreams.
Your fictional characters with surreal affection
are recycled experiences that have always existed.
You saw me as normal, because you thought
you could only sink if the water was over your head.
I learned to drown in water knee deep.
My muscles have always throbbed for variety.
You question the validity because
letters can’t exist outside the alphabet;
created to calm the insanity of misinterpreted communications.
I have drawn letters that you and I both know.
I have drawn letters that you don’t try to learn.
But you only pay attention to the words you recognize,
and don’t discover a dictionary for the others.
I learned something important,
as I was kissing the lips of names without identity.
Assumed she was he and I sat silenced.
The darkness that comes from surrendering
is just as real as the fear of knowing you always might.
Ninth grade and all I talked about was the recklessness
he made me feel, I couldn’t be bothered to mention
the soothing feeling of finally including her name.
You saw me as normal, planted fag into your vocabulary
and forgot secret identities are secret for a reason.
My muscles have always throbbed for variety.
You question the validity because
left and right, up and down, there is only ever two.
Two choices to silence the confusion that never actually disappeared.
I have written directions with no unknown language.
I have written directions to uninhabited lands.
And you tell me you’re lost because
you only know a world to the third dimension.
I learned something important,
as I was changing in front of the eyes,
of the girls who liked boys.
There is no difference between a girl and guy.
I’ve lost my heart, but not to you.
And now that you know, doesn’t mean I’m suddenly losing myself
to every vulva that walks towards me.
You saw me as normal because I never showed affection,
but as soon as knowledge spreads, previous actions are erased.
Your lace underwear won’t start to make me wet.
So tell me,
Why do I need to tell you I need help?
Because you assume I’m happy.
Why do I need to tell you to stop?
Because you assume I’m insignificant.
Why do I need to tell you I am pansexual?
Because you assume I’m straight.
So tell me,
Why do you assume my tears will drag you down?
Because in every movie the girl who hangs herself is only whispered about;
depression is an illness unlike the rest, it’s shameful.
Why do you assume I was going to say “yes”?
Because I learned at a young age even if I wanted to say “no”,
if it makes someone else happy it should make me happy too.
Why do you assume my heart beats for boys?
Because the books we read, it’s always the girl hiding in the bathroom,
making love to her girlfriend that is shunned by her parents.
“As women we have been taught
to ignore our differences.”
As depressed women we have been taught
to pretend dying is a common hope.
As queer women we have been taught
to fall in love with a boy we can’t stand.
As depressed, queer women we have been taught
to spill our sadness into the sex we’re supposed to have.
As women in a nation of men, we have been taught
“violence [is] a tool to keep women in their place.”
As depressed, queer women in a nation of men, we have been taught
to disguise the pain, disguise the love, disguise the apparent need to rise to power.
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141,251 Literary Works • 674,330 Reviews
Hullo Alexacode!
I know you've had some discussion below in reviews and comments and that's pretty exciting! I've only glanced over the other reviews but a key point really stuck out at me that I'd like to address and maybe reassure you about.
This is a poem.
It's definitely a long poem and I'm not going to say it doesn't need some work, but it's definitely poetry. Poetry comes in all shapes and tones and lines, and this is one that breaks some conventions, though perhaps not intentionally.
You have a strong sense of expression, we know exactly how you feel about what you're talking about and we can relate to a lot of what you're saying. The rhythm of your lines is out though, there isn't a sense of natural movement from line to line and sometimes word to word. The first thing I'd like to suggest is that you read this out aloud. A lot of the time reading something aloud will tell you where things are going wrong. A little tip for reading poetry is that you should give a slight pause at the end of each line, the length of a breath should do. Each line should have the strength that you want the whole poem to have.
Your poem is too long, I think. You've got a lot of ideas and a lot of things to say here and I know that's going to take up space. However, I think if you played with some poetic devices, like metaphors, simile and imagery, you'll find that you can talk about a lot of what you want in a smaller space. You have to remember that your audience is like anyone in the new age, if you don't have a very strong sense of narrative or key imagery to keep the length seeming short, you'll lose us to something shorter and more clear. We need a better sense of connection and direction.
I think you could definitely have something here. The sentiment is strong and your expression is honest. You do need to cut some of this to change the length, and you should consider using more poetic devices to really drive your point home. Your audience will respond more enthusiastically to a poem that connects to them and demands their attention and their emotion. You get that connection through those poetic devices.
Please hit me up if you have any questions and if you change this, I'd be really interested in seeing what you do. Thanks for posting!
- Penguin.
thank you so much!! I will work on this. this was an intersectionality essay, normally I write with more metaphors but yeah I will work on this
If it was meant to be an essay and not a poem, you need to reconsider the form.
Holy. Hell.
Ok, so hi, I'm Maddie, and I'm here to review this . . . poem?
Yeah, I agree with Rosendorn, this is no poem. This is an essay cut up into lines. You have no flow, the meter, and holy crap this is WAY too long.
Like I'm not joking when I say that I didn't remember the first 20 lines by the end because my brain was just overwhelmed by this. Also, you are being way too intense. I completely agree with basically everything you're saying. In fact, I've written too pieces, a short story and a poem, which connects to this idea. But, in my situation, I built up the tension, and I made sure it was short enough that people could understand it and let it easily sink in. You, from the get-go are so angry and standoffish in the way you write this that honestly at the halfway point I didn't want to keep reading because I, as a female, felt like I was being yelled at. I have gone through some of things mentioned, but I hate that you make it sound like women are not strong enough to build themselves back up and try to deflect the world image. Not everything associated with this idea of feminism has to be derogatory. I am in the process of writing a book series, it's also on here, and one of my main bases is the strength of a young woman. Yes, the story is told from the perspective of a man, but the story revolves around this woman building herself up from absolutely nothing to becoming one of the strongest characters I have ever created. She goes through some of this crap, but unlike the normality that you are preaching about how women just allow this to happen, she learns from it, and grows more mature because of it. Use some of this you've written, but instead of making women who read this feel angry at the world because their dad gave them the wrong genomes, make them feel like despite all of this, they can and will become successful and be happy.
That's all I'm gonna say.
~Maddie
Couldn't help but spot this.
I would just like to say there is nothing wrong with anger. It is a perfectly valid emotion, one that generates a lot of change, and women in particular are often vilified for expressing it. One of the things feminism attempts to change is giving women the freedom to be angry. To be bitter. To be anything but kind, gentle, selfless people. Because we have repressed our emotions enough, and it's time we were allowed to show them, too
There is a difference between being angry with a point and being angry just to be angry. This felt like the latter.
Being angry isn't a very strong point because anger can lead two directions; strength and resolve or bitterness and hatred. You're idea of anger normally leads to the second, meaning that in the end, you will solve nothing because in the end hatred could breed more intense things like violence and unnecessary stereotypes. No one said being angry is a bad thing, but you can't say next that it's ok to be bitter, because that is going down the road the EXACT opposite of what you want. You want to show your strength, but in a positive light.
Not all men are awful. Not all women are weak.
"Anger leads to hatred, hatred leads to violence, violence leads revenge, revenge leads to uprise, uprise leads to war, and then that restarts the circle with more anger."
Preach a positive message, not one that wants heads.
Bitterness is not the absence of strength. I personally find anger and negative emotions a far more nuanced topic than "this type is Good and this type is Bad", because it's basically impossible to tell where people are coming from.
Healing happens in a very large multitude of ways, and cutting people off from certain emotions hamstrings their healing. Sometimes people need to be bitter, need to lash, need to be so-called "bad victims" for awhile. Sometimes this is a long while.
But they're healing. And nobody else but the person going through it is in a place to judge.
Bitterness is allowing anger to take your strength and feed it into hatred. As someone who has not only gone through it, but has witness that kind of bitterness, it only makes things worse. There is a negative cognotation to the word bitterness for a reason. That kind of thinking just makes you go deeper and deeper into an angry and depressed state. At some point, people become so consumed that they lose emotion entirely. I know two people like that.
Healing does take time but it has never been said that being bitter is an approach you should take. Any therapist or psychologist would be saying that this idea is never right. I'm aware that this approach is taken, but it shouldn't be preached that this is an ok thing to do. If you want to preach about the strength of women, speak of overcoming the bitterness, overcoming the hatred, overcoming the BS and just getting over it. You make it sound like I should be mad that my father gave me the wrong chromosome. You're putting such a negative spin on this idea that that is something I did think of while reading this and this conversation. I shouldn't be pissed off at the world that I have vagina, I should be trying to prove them wrong and try to break out of the system.
I have been a bad victim, I cursed the world and was bitter. I almost did some really dark things because of it. Don't talk like you know everything about bitterness and give it a light definition, because as someone who's been there, I really don't think you comprehend the magnitude of what you're trying to say. It's killed people.
Hello.
This poem has a heart in the right place but fails at two points.
One: you use a slur against physically disabled individuals in a poem that is supposed to be intersectional. "Cr*pple" is not a word to be used by anybody but the physically disabled, who are in a place to reclaim it, but anyone else should abstain from using the word. If you are truly trying to go for intersectionality, you must respect the physically disabled in your works.
Two: this is not a poem.
You have no tension, no real poetic language, and no sense of flow. Instead, you have an extraordinarily long essay that hammers home a too heavy message, that will turn away those who do not wish to hear what you have to say and gives no real value to anyone who already knows this stuff.
Poetry— especially poetry with a message— should be more focused on the emotion and story than on a singular message. Whenever a message takes centre stage over the connection with a reader, giving us some emotions over the issue.
Simply stating things bluntly, with the prosaic opening, plus repetition that sounds like a song's chorus, does not elicit any emotions or makes me particularly interested. There's nothing new, nothing personal, and nothing really brought to the table as you discuss theory instead of give me a piece to relate to.
You did have some good lines, such as "Whiteness doesn’t mask the villains that are colorblind", but these are completely lost as you simply try to give us a Feminism 101.
Poetry is not written for the sole purpose of delivering social messages. Poetry is to create a connection with the reader, stir some emotion within them. This makes it perfect for communicating social issues, but the way to go about it is not bluntness.
Look up spoken word poems from Brave New Voices and Button Poetry. These poetry slams delve into deep, painful issues but do so in a way that is clever and emotional, meaning you get the message in a unique way that makes you more likely to listen to the message. They are also far shorter, which is another place your poem is weak: sometimes brevity is indeed the soul of wit.
Overall, I can see why you wanted to write this poem. However, it's too broad and too impersonal to really hit home as a good poem.
Let me know if you have any questions or comments.
~Rosey