I am woman.
Hear me cry.
I am woman.
Hear me roar, she sang, when I am brave enough to speak for myself, but sometimes I am not.
I am short.
I am made of strong muscle. yet I am all heart.
I am sexual, and yet sometimes ashamed of these feelings.
Maybe because I am rejected. Maybe because of my past.
Maybe because someone told me that good girls don’t, bad girls do, and the unmentionable acts are only for whores.
I feel placed into categories.
Am I Madonna, or the whore?
Am I Madonna to him, and whore to someone else?
Can’t I be both Madonna and whore?
Can’t I be neither Madonna, nor whore?
Am I mother, or am I a person, individual, or a being with freewill?
Or am I all of these things?
I am sensitive.
For this I am punished.
I’m told I should be less emotional, less sensitive, and more like everyone else,
and frankly, everyone else can be rather boring.
I’m not a poet–prose or the essay is my weapon of choice,
In case anyone gave a shit, so this blog probably blows.
I want you to like this.
I want you to like me.
No, they don’t, I’m told.
I’m not needed, or really much wanted.
If every man is an island, this woman is a destination.
I want visitors.
I want to be wanted.
I want to discover something new about me, about you, and about everyone.
I am listening.
I like role-playing, debating, reading, writing, and talking…
Yes, sometimes, just to hear myself.
Not because I am a narcissist, but because I have been silenced, minimized, and devalued by so many people who told me I was just
A set of tits.
Just a sensitive, emotional woman.
Pull it together.
I am sometimes, just a sensitive and emotional woman.
I am sometimes, a narcissist, who needs to hear herself talk.
Aren’t I important?
I’m the youngest child.
I have daddy issues.
You may hear about this.
You may find it annoying.
You may find me irritating, annoying, and trivial, but to me,
I am all that I am, and not less.
You may find me amazing, exciting, and passionate, and to you,
I am all that I am, and more.
I am everything.
I will always stop being mad, at the end of the night.
Being mad wastes time.
Being angry, is for dogs,
rabid dogs, who want nothing less but to tear you apart,
unless the wounds are reopened and broken again, and again.
Some wounds are.
Open and break again.
Some I cannot heal. I try though.
I don’t know how to be the other way–cold and withdrawn.
Shutting people out?
Hard as nails, but nails can chip. Crack.
I can crack and break, but I am loyal.
Anger is not my weapon of choice.
I don’t know if I have a weapon.
If so, the pen is mightier than the sword,
and I may never stop writing, if you dare to chance it.
If you’re still reading.
If you ever did, read.
Flighty, dreamy, and whimsical,
I will not lie still.
You would like me to.
Men would like me to.
Women would like me to.
The world, would like me to
just behave for once.
Just be quiet, they tell me
Stop being so… anxious.
Just shut up.
They say, repeatedly, over and over.
I will not shut up.
I will not stop talking.
I will stop talking when I am dead.
If you want a puppet, or a well-behaved woman, you have come to the wrong address.
You have come to the wrong destination, and need to turn around, and go back to your island, because this woman needs people.
This woman will not be quiet.
Good girls don’t shut up.
They Keep talking.
Hear me chatter.
Ps. This is not a poem. This is just a manifesto.
I suck at poetry, and applaud all who dominate the genre.