Creative | Posted by Tesneem A on 06/3/2011
I won’t follow your conventions; I’ll lead my own way,
And I will refuse to listen to those that say nay,
I’ll speak my mind and do whatever I like,
Whether you think I am wrong or right,
For who are you to judge me or the things I do,
When you have barely spoken to me for a second or two?
I’ll welcome your friendship with open arms,
Yes I’m kind and cool, don’t be alarmed!
But the day you treat me like dirt on the floor,
You’ll sling your hook, and there’s the door!
I am a person of value and high esteem,
No matter how anyone else tries to make me seem.
Bash me and bruise me if you dare,
I’ll still trust my convictions sans any …
Creative | Posted by Tesneem A on 05/27/2011
No Body Is Perfect
Colour me flawless, colour me pretty,
Isn’t it enough that I’m smart, caring and witty?
I have my scars and I have my scratches,
I even have my fair share of bulges,
I wish that the skeletons would stay in their closets,
And that those cans of worms would remain closed,
But I can’t deny that I’ve had my woes,
For perfection for me is a far away dream,
Unattainable and ever elusively seen,
I know that life goes on, but I still despair,
No matter how much it looks like I don’t care,
But I wish it wasn’t so hard for me to let go,
It’s time to be resilient and live again, to be emancipated and elated,
Because if it’s true that the sky is the limit and …
Creative | Posted by Shvaugn on 05/6/2011
Red Sunflower Desire
I can remember
the first time I split
this earth open,
locked within the blooming
garden of sunflowers that
formed the upstairs bathroom.
I told you first
almost begging, asking about
how I should tell our parents.
You dragged me downstairs
and pushed me forward
spilling forth with the news
as we all sat there awkwardly,
my small frame I was already beginning
buried beneath the blue folds
of my bathrobe,
underwear pressing tightly to my skin
as if to brand me
with red secrets of shame that
I would carry through out
I checked off day one immediately
beginning a regular cycle
of forgetfulness and inconvenience for
I can no longer count
between the lines in my memories,
a stack of pads sitting
on the …
Creative | Posted by Melanie Z on 04/8/2011
My Body Is
My body is not an object.
It is not another’s to sculpt or scrutinize.
It is not the canvas on which you paint your expectations and standards.
It is not your playground.
My body is not your project.
It is not where you decide.
It can’t be told what to wear, how to change, when to be available.
Its boundaries are not determined by the others.
My body is my home.
It is where I write my story.
It is where and how and why I reject your critiques and limitations.
It is rebellion in itself.
My body is a revolution.
It is the personification of my soul.
It is the vehicle through which I dance, riot, love, explore.
It is my choice.
It is my reclamation.
It is ever …
Pop-Culture | Posted by Josie T on 02/12/2011
Saturday Vids: Katie Makkai “Pretty”
I came across this video while researching performance poetry for a competition I’m involved in at school, and I was floored by how truthful and beautifully written and performed it is.
Creative | Posted by Elise F on 12/10/2010
what do i dream of, while i’m lying alone in my bed,
swallowed by the darkness,
comforted only by the branches whispering into my window
i can’t fall asleep.
i see the faces, of all the girls
who have slipped through the barrier of our planet
see them crying, see them screaming
see them gasping and thrashing
i see them so well,
it is almost as if the images are being projected onto the dark ceiling
and i can’t fall asleep.
the feeling suffocates me, grabs me
its strong fingers tearing at my skin,
letting the darkness get to me.
my ears buzz, my throat starts closing
and i squeeze my eyes as tight as i can
knowing if i let tears stream down my flushed face,
it’s a sign …
Creative | Posted by Emily B on 11/24/2010
Excerpt from a Fairytale
Girls should have exoskeletons, he told her.
Their ribs could be can openers.
My parents never touched each other enough, she said.
He traced her stomach like a coloring book, stopping
And starting to a thousand imaginary traffic lights.
“Happiness is a cliché,” he told her.
“I want to feel in black and white,” she said.
She wanted her heart to print receipts.
Their menus rest on the table like slain birds.
She garnished her soul like it was a thing to be consumed.
Every human being is waiting, she said,
At the bus stop of someone else’s
soul. wanting to be taken to Paradise.
So stop waiting, he said.
He imagined her soul bobbing away, like a balloon.
She wanted to kill him and press him into the
Creative | Posted by Emily B on 11/19/2010
Girls always believe in
things told in whispers. And the
circuits connecting tangential fields of
stars and fingertips holed
in alphabets slip across rained in minds in a circumcision
I’ve invented you, carved you out of traffic lights
to become beautiful–what kills me is the way birds always
fly south, down, and the way their beaks preclude
the possibility of kissing.
I’ve invented the colors underneath your clothes and
the things you could say under street lamps, erased a thousand illuminated mosquitos
But this isn’t a drawing class and the symmetry of sidewalks
is sketched to be beautiful only to insects.
Let’s say the stars are in your eyes, because
beauty is always imagined, and the lights are too
dim by the mattress anyway. Let’s say the moon …