What guys look for in a girl poem
Only been in love once. Real love takes a while to get started and you have to know the person as a friend first. It just comes naturally. Puppy love is something that happens quickly and with little effort. Usually in the summer months when everyone feels like getting their romance on.SEE VIDEO BY TOPIC: Savannah Brown "What Guys Look For In Girls" - NSDA Nationals 2014
SEE VIDEO BY TOPIC: "What Guys Look For In Girls" - A Slam Poem (POEM MONDAY) REACTION
What Guys Look For In Girls- Savannah Brown
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart— It really goes.
That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. She has been condemned to death by hanging. A man may escape this death by becoming the hangman, a woman by marrying the hangman. But at the present time there is no hangman; thus there is no escape. There is only a death, indefinitely postponed.
This is not fantasy, it is history. To live in prison is to live without mirrors. To live without mirrors is to live without the self. She is living selflessly, she finds a hole in the stone wall and on the other side of the wall, a voice.
The voice comes through darkness and has no face. This voice becomes her mirror. In order to avoid her death, her particular death, with wrung neck and swollen tongue, she must marry the hangman.
But there is no hangman, first she must create him, she must persuade this man at the end of the voice, this voice she has never seen and which has never seen her, this darkness, she must persuade him to renounce his face, exchange it for the impersonal mask of death, of official death which has eyes but no mouth, this mask of a dark leper.
She must transform his hands so they will be willing to twist the rope around throats that have been singled out as hers was, throats other than hers. She must marry the hangman or no one, but that is not so bad. Who else is there to marry? You wonder about her crime. She was condemned to death for stealing clothes from her employer, from the wife of her employer.
She wished to make herself more beautiful. This desire in servants was not legal. She uses her voice like a hand, her voice reaches through the wall, stroking and touching. What could she possibly have said that would have convinced him? He was not condemned to death, freedom awaited him. What was the temptation, the one that worked? Perhaps he wanted to live with a woman whose life he had saved, who had seen down into the earth but had nevertheless followed him back up to life. It was his only chance to be a hero, to one person at least, for if he became the hangman the others would despise him.
He was in prison for wounding another man, on one finger of the right hand, with a sword. This too is history. My friends, who are both women, tell me their stories, which cannot be believed and which are true. They are horror stories and they have not happened to me, they have not yet happened to me, they have happened to me but we are detached, we watch our unbelief with horror.
Such things cannot happen to us, it is afternoon and these things do not happen in the afternoon. These things happen and we sit at a table and tell stories about them so we can finally believe. This is not fantasy, it is history, there is more than one hangman and because of this some of them are unemployed.
He said: the end of walls, the end of ropes, the opening of doors, a field, the wind, a house, the sun, a table, an apple. The hangman is not such a bad fellow. Afterwards he goes to the refrigerator and cleans up the leftovers, though he does not wipe up what he accidentally spills.
He wants only the simple things: a chair, someone to pull off his shoes, someone to watch him while he talks, with admiration and fear, gratitude if possible, someone in whom to plunge himself for rest and renewal. These things can best be had by marrying a woman who has been condemned to death by other men for wishing to be beautiful. There is a wide choice. Everyone said he was a fool. Everyone said she was a clever woman. They used the word ensnare. What did they say the first time they were alone together in the same room?
What did he say when she had removed her veil and he could see that she was not a voice but a body and therefore finite? What did she say when she discovered that she had left one locked room for another? They talked of love, naturally, though that did not keep them busy forever. The fact is there are no stories I can tell my friends that will make them feel better. History cannot be erased, although we can soothe ourselves by speculating about it.
At that time there were no female hangmen. Perhaps there have never been any, and thus no man could save his life by marriage. Though a woman could, according to the law.
I have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night; dreaming evil, I have done my hitch over the plain houses, light by light: lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite. I have been her kind. I have found the warm caves in the woods, filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves, closets, silks, innumerable goods; fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves: whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood. I have ridden in your cart, driver, waved my nude arms at villages going by, learning the last bright routes, survivor where your flames still bite my thigh and my ribs crack where your wheels wind. A woman like that is not ashamed to die. Have you ever had your boyfriend tell you he wanted to go celibate, which meant no kissing or holding hands, or ever been pulled over for tailgating a cop who called you stupid, to which you agreed.
Why do they sin? The pill you order arrives in a yellow envelope. The bleeding never stops, not like on your period. When you pull down your underwear, a blood clot falls onto the bathroom floor of the gas station. This is when you are driving west and you ask your phone: Does coffee make anxiety worse? What are to-be verbs? How long will 18 mg of Adderall last? How to stop yourself from crying? Answer: distract yourself with pain.
Sink your nails into your thighs. Slam your hand in a car door. Slap your jaw with a tightened fist and laugh at how easy it used to be to make yourself cry on purpose. All you had to do was think about your dog dying someday and now you think about your dog dying two years ago and there is nothing.
There is nothing until you leave the bathroom and the man behind the counter says Slow down, child. At least buy yourself a pretzel melt first. Then, perhaps, there is something. Stitched in silver, a crown Of tinsel pinned into the dark Blonde knots and dreads of my hair. I follow a sequin thread of dead Things, stop when the moon clocks out, Polish my long nails in the sun.
One of the women greeted me. I love you, she said. I love you, I love you, as she continued Down the hall past other strangers, Each feeling pierced suddenly By pillars of heavy light.
I love you, throughout The performance, in every Handclap, every stomp. I love you in the rusted iron Chains someone was made To drag until love let them be Unclasped and left empty In the center of the ring.
‘Keats is dead...’: How young women are changing the rules of poetry
When brothers sit together, they're selling their sisters to others. Credit: Alamy. It must have 22 syllables, with nine in the first line and 13 in the second.
Poetry is an incredible form of solace. Cox, 23, leapt into the list of top 10 bestselling poets last year with She Must Be Mad , her debut collection of poems about her journey from girl to woman. Like Rupi Kaur , the year-old Canadian-Punjabi who dominated the bestsellers last year, Cox first began publishing on Instagram. But instead of buying works by the dead white men who have dominated the canon for centuries, young women are using their economic muscle to drive up sales of works by female poets, making poetry more diverse and representative than ever before.
How Men See Women, How Women See Men
My name is Rufus Lee Brown. Most of my life, I was raised by my mother, Mrs. I currently make my home in Orlando, Florida. I am a high school graduate with one and a half year of college studies in business management. Creative writing has always been in my blood, but I never pursued it until recently. My interest has always been to write children books. I have a several manuscripts, poems, and two songs registered as unpublished in the Library of Congress.
Skinny shaming poem
The other day at the post office, I became aware of how I categorize men. I instinctively smiled at a white-haired old man wearing a baggy white shirt and an odd-shaped straw hat who held open a door for me. I realized that if he had been young and attractive, I probably would have 1 gazed off cooly into space and brushed past, or 2 smiled back at him self-consciously, lips pressed together. If he had been middle-aged with a prosperous paunch, I might have frowned at him, even insisted that he go through the door first. I go for men with longer hair and beards.
I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it—. Thank you for signing up! Keep an eye on your inbox.
16 Guys Explain Their Take On What ‘True Love’ Really Is
Men and women [poems]. Author's ed. Robert Browning. My heart seemed full as it could hold ; There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.
So begins year-old Savannah Brown's three-minute takedown of every societal standard forced upon women. Just like Lily Myer's " Shrinking Women, " which captivated us in October , every second of this poem has power. Brown charges that society perceives confident women as narcissistic "since when was loving who we are made an offense by morons that don't matter? Brown slays him, but it's clear the poem is more about her -- about women and the process of self-discovery and love -- than anyone trying to tell them how to be. It has been updated to reflect the accurate figure, 4. US Edition U.
25 Feminist Poems to Provoke and Inspire Nasty Women
When I first learned that no one could ever love me more than me a world of happiness previously unseen was discovered because somewhere along the line of aging and scrutiny and time I was taught to despise myself but i kept myself beautiful so someone would love me someday so i could belong to someone someday because that's the most important thing a little girl could ever want right? I was 13 the first time i was embarrassed about my body of course it would not be the last I remember in the morning tears streaming down my eyes hoping, praying to something that I Could look beautiful enough today braces and all for the ruthless boys who told me I was worthless and i would go home and put on a sweatshirt with my eyes closed denying myself the right to be shown myself because I didn't dare insinuate beauty in regards to something so insulting as my body but we all end up with our heads between our knees because the only place we feel safe is inside skin we've been taught to hate by a society that shuns our awful confidence and feed us our own flaws and sometimes when i need to meet the me that loves me i can't find her a reminder that the mirror is meant to be a curse so i confine her in my mind be when he or she shouts let me out we are allowed to listen but its met by a chorus of conceited, egotistical, narcissist but since when was self solicitude a sin? Share this poem:. Autoplay next video. Poet's Notes about The Poem. There is no comment submitted by members.. Read this poem in other languages.