Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

It Can Be Lonely, Being A Lady

A million mirages,

a million ways to look okay,

when life looks bleak,

a million smiles,

that cost too much to keep,

when you close the door,

and are alone,

sliding to the floor,

with your heart in your throat,

your eyes a waterfall.

It can be lonely,

being a lady.

We are strong, but soft,

dainty, but depended on.

The whole world leans on us,

leers at us,

locks us up,

because free women are a fantasy,

and to be a woman is a madness,

confused,

contained,

in the rules we are set.

In our springtime,

we are sweet,

melded into our madness,

run ragged until we are rigid,

expectations flow like wayward strands of hair,

in rare moments that we forget,

and just run.

When winter comes,

free but invisible,

we will be our own broken dreams,

eyes closed,

wondering how far back we can go,

wondering how to reclaim ourselves,

from the life we were assigned.

It can be lonely.

It can be maddening.

It can be frightening.

It can be overwhelming.

It can be different,

if we choose it.

If we break the rules,

run,

jump,

scream,

say it’s okay not to smile,

say it’s okay to let the world stand on itself,

say to your sister,

that you will stand for her too.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Release Your Feminism As A Single

Art is ludicrous.

Art is loud.

Art is your heart,

finding flight,

glowing and gliding,

colliding with the limits you live by,

growing and shining,

until your heart casts a shadow,

that leaves you so sure,

that the whole world could be yours,

if you wanted it.

Yes,

Art is loud,

ludicrous,

life changing,

heartbreaking,

passionate,

limitless,

life affirming!

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Until…

Until Art is silent.

Until Art is complicit.

Until Art looks the other way,

and she always does,

because while Art declares herself loud,

ludicrous,

life changing and limitless,

Art is selfish,

Art is egocentric,

Art is a social climber,

Art is a networker.

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Art would like her fans to know,

that she wouldn’t work with somebody

that she BELIEVES to be an abuser of women.

Art says that she still doesn’t understand the whole story.

Art says that it’s not really her business.

Art says that he is an incredibly sweet and gentle man.

Art says he was never inappropriate with her.

Art says she believes women,

just not THAT woman.

Art keeps her feminism as a deep cut,

she only plays it at concerts,

where the audience is already booing,

because Art does not realise,

that slick production is not enough,

to cover up the crime of complicity.

Art does not see itself from the outside.

Art does not realise that every line,

lyric and rhyme from her mouth,

is replaced with a simple but sad phrase.

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“I want to be famous,

and I’m willing to sell out other women

to get what I want.”


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Smothered

You talk to me,

like I’ve been lobotomised,

like the way that I’ve been traumatised,

means I love to be patronised.

Maybe I don’t mind,

maybe I like watching you

do everything you think I want you to do,

as if you know the rules.

img_0143

I watch you,

without a single cue,

you cut up my food,

you lace up my shoes.

Don’t talk so slow,

little love,

or my ideas will catch up,

and I will soar above,

out of reach,

out of view.

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I am a project for you.

The flour baby,

from your youth.

You think if you don’t let me die,

then I’ll survive,

and I never had the heart to say,

that my heart still beats,

whether you micromanage it or not.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Needs

There is nothing wrong with him.

Not in the sense that society expects.

He has a good job,

working with the hands that he’s obsessed with,

(he always seems to talk about them,

and their alleged talents),

he’s got his driving licence,

a real one,

not one of the little plastic ones,

from Legoland.

img_1452

Yes,

he’s a grown man.

He tells me,

all about wanting to get to know me,

but he broke into my study,

taking all my children from the shelf,

committing crime after crime,

breaking my heart,

before he had even won it,

desecrating all the days I held close

tearing down the tales I had built,

from the matter of my brain,

and the things that really mattered to me,

(which he never bothered to ask about,

by the way),

because he says my work “does it” for him,

(whatever that means)

and though I know,

it is no longer mine,

when I set it free,

it is still like watching my child,

being chased,

into the woods,

by wayward wolves,

who could never have the best of intentions.

img_1454

I finally understand,

why my mother would hold my hand,

a little tighter,

when I was a girl,

as we walked past pubs,

with smoking areas,

sexual harassment minefields,

That baby is mine,

growing from my mind,

but still,

just as real and essential to me,

as if she crawled from my canal,

to arrive in my arms,

and though he thinks he’s done nothing wrong,

and I am too conditioned by alleged feminine empowerment,

that always seems to centre men,

to “kink shame” him,

or prioritise my own comfort,

I feel sick,

when he tells me that he wants to fuck my baby.

img_1455

He says he likes our conversations,

but they are scripted exchanges,

where I am only permitted to tell him that I’m fine,

and to act impressed

that he expresses an interest in performing oral sex on a woman,

because if I ask him to ask about my interests,

I am being boring.

If I ask him to try a little harder to make me feel special,

I am being unreasonable.

If I ask him to treat my work with the same respect I do his,

I am being oversensitive.

If I ask him to leave me alone,

I am a bitch,

who isn’t giving him a chance,

because she’s up herself,

or thinks she is better than him,

because she went to university,

and does some artsy job,

and reads the papers,

or…

img_1453

I know he has needs,

but so do I,

and I’m trying to find an acceptable way,

to say that he just isn’t capable of fulfilling them.



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