Creative, Feminism | Posted by Riya S on 11/8/2013
A Feminist Wave of Fury
I’m not walking ‘before’ Anybody.
I’m not here to parade my body,
Or prance and flit about.
Cause under all the prettiness,
There beats an Amazon heart.
To wear what We want.
To do what We dream.
To be who We are.
I’m watching you with Feminist eyes ,
Waiting for a slip up.
Blood’s been lost for Black and White.
But for battle? Not a drop.
To love whom We want,
But only When We please.
We want to be free.
It’s one thing to be proud of being women but I believe that equality can only be achieved if we treat everyone according to their individual merits. I think that being denied opportunities or being treated as less because of What and not Who you are is a …
Creative | Posted by Riya S on 08/30/2013
The Universal Sisterhood of Puberty
Pain dripping down my legs.
Bumps growing from my chest.
Doubled up. Feel the heat.
Mum, I NEED something to eat!
Checking out the guys,
Just when did they turn out so nice?
Look at myself in mirror again-
I look good!
Call me hormonal. Call me weird.
I’m feeling sick and tired
Of the pain of my red
And the sore swellings on my chest.
Now I’m staring at the bathroom floor.
I don’t call it a sickness anymore.
It’s my invite to a worldwide party
Of girls celebrating Puberty.
Creative | Posted by Jordan96 on 07/12/2013
Life never passed more slowly than it did when I cried behind the football stands. Like a movie, the crowds cheered while I bowed my head in defeat, the music roared while my smile was muted. Small towns are bubbles to be popped at the break of innocence. “Life is good if you believe in goodness.”
But when a short, acne scarred boy approached me with venom in his eyes — there was nothing good about that day. When he told me rape was a woman’s fault — there was nothing good about that day. When he told me women should know better and protect themselves 24/7, all hours of the day, with guns in their hands — there was nothing good about that day.
Daddy’s girl had never cried …
Creative | Posted by Charlotte P on 06/21/2013
It could not be said that the moment was unusual. There was a room and within it there was a table. The weather outside was unimportant, as the temperature within the house was tolerable aside from a chilling air of contentment. Courtesy disguised relevant tasks as temporarily trivial; the will of her late husband could be settled later. Voices spoke in urgent laziness.
“She likes the floral.”
“I do think the floral is nice, yes. I like the floral.”
“The floral clutters the room a bit.”
“She does like the floral though.”
There were three women in a room. One was distinctly older, while the other two were nearly half the age of the first. You could see that there were three, yet your eyes gravitated toward the woman in …
Creative | Posted by Tiffany C on 05/3/2013
Let me ask you this:
What do we teach our daughters
When the bestselling doll on the market, Barbie,
Has a made-up face and mascara-ed eyes and lips as pink as grapefruit,
But not enough ambition or intelligence to calculate her net worth?
What do I tell my daughter
when we pass through Toys-R-Us
And she wants that artificial décolletage in a box,
This trickery, chicanery of Mattel
who fashioned this doll, this plastic piece of shit
With a serial number lingering on her lower back like a tramp stamp
Above slim thighs which gap and disproportionate legs,
Legs, I tell her, that would snap beneath
Barbie’s weight if she were real
That would make her fall at the slightest step,
Only for the purpose of mass-production and consumerism
Creative | Posted by Eden Halo on 04/26/2013
Midas and Medusa
Our suffering was human long before you
Tried to “humanise” it,
Give us the kiss of life,
I am not your wife, I am not your sister
I am not your fucking daughter, sorry to break
All this water
On the embers of you
Deigning, for once, to give a damn
What your friends do to us
By imagining we belong
To you — I will demonstrate
How little you know of possession
As I run
My keys along your car
Til your mouth unlocks, drops open
And I dive down your throat, walk around
In you, the cage
Of your ribs more spacious than
My own, two sizes too small,
Zero, counting down to take-off, space
For my heart all taken
With the frenzied tango
Of me watching you …
Creative | Posted by JoThro on 03/22/2013
A Nameless Woman
A woman is silhouetted against a blue backdrop. She is sitting down and we see her from the waist up. She is talking to someone sitting opposite her, smoking as she does. When she talks a cacophony of images that might be seen in women’s magazines flash above her head, pictures of celebrities and clothes and beauty products, which change too quickly to be seen. The images cease when she pauses in speech. Her manner of speaking flips between that of a comforting older relative and a bitchy gossip reporter. She reads out the phrases in capitals in a completely different manner, she becomes stiff and sounds like an advert voiceover, before seemingly forgetting all about it. She has a warm voice, A Southern English accent.
I’ve missed you lately. …
Creative | Posted by Julie Z on 02/24/2013
Support Women Artists Sunday: Rebecca Ferguson
People used to tell Rebecca Ferguson her life was ruined. A teenage mother of two children, dreams of becoming a famous singer seemed far-fetched. Motivated to fulfill her lifelong wish, Rebecca signed up for the tenth season of the UK’s X Factor, and pushed through emotional breakdowns to perform almost every week. Adored quickly by harsh critic and judge Simon Cowell, Rebecca wound up being the show’s runner-up and began crafting songs for her debut album, Heaven, soon after. Coming from a struggling single-parent household, there wasn’t enough money for Rebecca to follow her passion for singing, so at 14 she got a job in a clothes shop to pay for singing lessons. Performing Arts college followed, despite her mother’s attempts to keep her from anything but Christian …