I’m just tired of maintaining this blog. So this is just a notice to my followers. I’m shifting all of my focus to my other blog. Feel free to follow. http://a-fan-of-escapism.tumblr.com. This blog will have the occasional prose and poems, and the same music I post on this blog, along with the pictures it currently posts on the other one. However, I won’t delete this blog so that I’m able to reblog posts when I feel like it. So yeah, this is my farewell to this blog. Hopefully you find me worth following at a-fan-of-escapism.
Um, I’m applauding you. & I, too, have trouble understanding why guys find us so attractive when they piss us off? Boys are stupid. My mommy agrees.
Haha. Thanks girl. I was so livid. In one ear and right out the other.
I was talking to my friend about how different it is for teenage girls and guys as far as the media and objectification goes. And he refused to even acknowledge any sort of difference. All he kept saying was how girls used him and hurt him and he tried to be a nice guy and everything. Not even listening to my points really. And at one point he said something so clueless and asinine that I started really laying into him about his closed-minded attitude, and he- I kid you not- interrupts me mid-sentence to tell me “just so you know, you look really cute when you’re like this.” I was so speechless. I started yelling at him about how that very thing was my issue. I can’t even make it through an intelligent debate without being objectified! Then he says “well, I’m sorry, I was taught to compliment girls.”
No, dude. No. You were taught to limit women to only their physical attributes and then expect them to say thank you for it.
In my land there are no distinctions.
The barbed wire politics of oppression
have been torn down long ago. The only reminder
of past battles, lost or won, is a slight
rutting in the fertile fields.
In my land
people write poems about love,
full of nothing but contented childlike syllables.
Everyone reads Russian short stories and weeps.
There are no boundaries.
There is no hunger, no
complicated famine or greed.
I am not a revolutionary.
I don’t even like political poems.
Do you think I can believe in a war between races?
I can deny it. I can forget about it
when I’m safe,
living on my own continent of harmony
and home, but I am not
I believe in revolution
because everywhere the crosses are burning,
sharp-shooting goose-steppers round every corner,
there are snipers in the schools…
(I know you don’t believe this.
You think this is nothing
but faddish exaggeration. But they
are not shooting at you.)
I’m marked by the color of my skin.
The bullets are discrete and designed to kill slowly.
They are aiming at my children.
These are facts.
Let me show you my wounds: my stumbling mind, my
“excuse me” tongue, and this
with the feeling of not being good enough.
These bullets bury deeper than logic.
Racism is not intellectual.
I cannot reason these scars away.
Outside my door
there is a real enemy
who hates me.
I am a poet
who yearns to dance on rooftops,
to whisper delicate lines about joy
and the blessings of human understanding.
I try. I go to my land, my tower of words and
bolt the door, but the typewriter doesn’t fade out
the sounds of blasting and muffled outrage.
My own days bring me slaps on the face.
Every day I am deluged with reminders
that this is not
and this is my land.
I do not believe in the war between races
but in this country
there is war.
First in Line, Matthew Mayfield
I’ll give you all of me, I’ll make you mine.
If you’ll take me.
In this dark light, I see her,
and build a pedestal
of water. She is the one,
the only one, nothing is caught
between us but my throat.
I want to say this
is a dream but it is true.
Do I know her? Is she the wet sight
There are moments when I feel life would be easier if I were someone else.
And then I remember your name (and how it will soon be mine).
It doesn’t get much easier than that.
I no longer need you to fuck me as hard
as I hate myself.
Make love to me
like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.
I’m new to this
but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping.
I have realized
that the moon did not have to be full for us to love it.
We are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it.
“Why do you walk with your head down all the time?” he asks.
“Because I’m not what anybody wants me to be.”
Silence for a moment.
“Why don’t you love yourself more?” he asks.
“Why do you pretend to love yourself so much?”