Dear Girls,

Pretty girls pretty girls everywhere,
Pretty girls don’t care
What you have to say about their hair,
They laugh, they cry
They’re of all shapes, sizes and heights

Pretty girls are of all kinds,
Cheap mascara running down their faces,
Cheap lipstick and shoes with laces,
Pretty girls aren’t all fair
And like I said, they don’t care.

Pretty girls sway their hips,
And words as sweet as honey,
Words that sting,
Words of pride escape their lips.
Pretty girls are our warriors in braces.

Pretty girls? Don’t see their pretty,
All they see in people’s eyes are pity,
They make a lacklustre world lustrous,
Their hair cascading till their hips,
But not all pretty girls are princesses.

Pretty girls have stories to tell,
Stories of sorrows,
And stories that go well.
Pretty girls are all about making your heart swell,
Even if they don’t speak your language, oh well.

Pretty girls, pretty girls everywhere,
Not a soul to spare,
They are true and bare.
Not only behind a screen,
They include the girl next door who screams.

Pretty girls need to be aware,
They are pretty, witty and loved,
No one else decides,
If their eyebrows need be plucked,
Or if they need a good fuck.

Dear pretty girls everywhere,
Look at the mirror and repeat after me,
“I am a girl,
I am pretty, angry, but wise
And fuck anyone who says otherwise.”

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Voice

Yes I have a big voice,

No I’m not proud.

I’m a five year old girl.

Mumma told me not to speak,

Pappa told me, no true woman is loud.

Grandma told me,

“It isn’t lady-like.”

I didn’t understand.

 

Yes I have a big voice,

No I’m not proud.

I’m a ten year old girl.

My whole school shushed me.

“I got excited, I’m sorry!”

But it didn’t save me,

From being the embarrassment.

 

Yes I have a big voice,

No I’m not proud.

I’m a fifteen year old girl,

Too scared to speak a word.

Maybe I’d be too loud,

Be the embarrassment I’m afraid of being.

I got so quiet,

I don’t have a friend around.

 

Yes, I have a big voice

No, I don’t care.

I’m an eighteen year old girl,

And I’ve learned,

A woman with a big voice?

I’m not the only one.

We’re fighters,

We aren’t unique.

I won’t shut up,

I’ve found people who don’t mind.

 

This big voice,

I use it for all the right causes,

So don’t you tell me to shut up.

Yes I have a big voice,

And yes,

I’m proud.

 

Distortion.

In a gallery, laced with white walls.

White walls decorated with squares of different sizes.

The squares of different sizes, with works of art enclosed in them.

Works of art, showing distorted faces.

The crowd stared at it. Contended, they smiled smiles, showing how emotionally linked they were to the pieces.

The artist, who stood distant from the crowd, smirked a knowing smirk. Of course everyone of them related to distorted faces.

The crowd, as expected by the artist, seemed reminiscent of all their flaws, be it mental or physical. Somehow, they all seemed so unsatisfied with some part of themselves as they stared at these paintings, as if someone acknowledged and accepted these flaws.

‘Society’. “‘Society’ is to blame!”, their minds yelled in unison. And with that, they went back to simply admiring the work.

The artist smiled pitifully at the crowd. His conscience ranting, going off about how, “It’s so very sad that today, they relate so well and find solace in art with distorted beings painted across the canvas. When they who gaze upon such work so admiringly, look perfectly normal. No eyes replacing noses, no oddly shaped faces, limbs which look perfectly fine and functional. And all they do is look at themselves in these paintings, feeling insecure, thinking that this is how society sees them –flawed.

And yet what they haven’t noticed is that they are very much part of this society that they blame, as if it was some external force they were never part of. They never realise that eventually, it’s in their hands to change views, to turn heads, and to trigger, in people, the need to question. It’s all in our hands.”

The artist couldn’t agree more. Yet, like everyone else, he chose to stay silent about it.

————————————

Yes, hi-hello. This is me, not being silent.

White Noise

White Noise. A sound so distinct.

It blares through the room. It embraces me

And I feel a comfortable warmth, spread through my body.

White Noise. A sound so distinct.

It erases the words, etched in my head,

“noisy”, “Annoying”, “Stupid”, “Dumb”,

And so many more I’ve forgotten.

Everything, just white noise.

White Noise. A sound so distinct.

It reminds me that the feeling of loneliness,

Lingering within me, is merely there until I hear the familiar noise

Take over my thoughts and it makes me forget that I am.

White Noise. A sound so distinct.

It reminds me, that I am nothing but static at that moment.


Inspired by my insecurities! I’m facing them and dealing with them. Hope to find happiness…~ (I’m not depressed or anything lol)

Thoughts That Keep Me Up at Night

I want a man with a firm chest,

Against which I can rest my head.

I want a man who’d look beyond my flaws,

My flaws that every other man considered ugly.

I want a man who’d embrace me so tight, I won’t be able to breathe,

For it is then when I’d feel like a part of him.

I want a man around whom I wouldn’t have to pretend.

A man around whom I wouldn’t have to fret.

A man who’d enjoy my quietness for often I have not much to say.

I want a man who’d understand when,

I have no words to say but nonetheless,

He’d understand me on a whole,

For I am who I am,

An awfully quiet girl where all that is loud,

is the silence that surrounds her and the noise of her crowded city.

Yet, when I find all this in a man,

My insecurities eat me as a whole meal,

As if it were a boa constrictor.

And I cower away out of shame and timidness.

Afraid to lose him,

When he wasn’t mine to begin with.

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My new school got me feelin’ like…