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Luna Lynn Apr 2014
I wake up and eat some eggs, a yogurt, and a few slices of melon
in an attempt to change my life
after all it is that or death
I won't hold my breath

It's a beautiful day to head to the mall
with a friend
I really know where this is going

Hmm
I like that shirt
Oops, this store doesn't offer plus size
On to the next..
I really like these jeans..
Forty five dollars for sizes sixteen and up
What a mess!

Since I refuse to let Lane Bryant **** my wallet in the ***
I decide to head to Barnes and Noble instead
I accidentally bumped into a lady and her baby stroller as I walked past and she mumbled
"Fat *****" under her breath
Yes that's what she said
I didn't even turn my head
Because that's what the lady said
and that's what society says
and instead of trying to explain it's just
easier to walk away
it's the self hatred after I dread

So I buy a whole pizza and eat the entire ******* thing
and it is beyond delicious
though the guilt I feel afterwards wasn't worth it
and vomitting that **** up was viscous

Even when I was a little girl I dreamed of being thin
I dreamed of being a model
I dreamed of having a flat tummy
Just to fit in
I didn't like the belly I had
or the fat in my cheeks
I was the only kid in gym that could never climb the rope
and that began a string of anxiety attacks
that would last for weeks

The doctor calls it insulin resistance
which leaves me with the inability to lose weight
but I shouldn't have to explain to anyone my condition
I just shouldn't have to explain
not to mention the ovarian disease that cripples me to my knees
which so happens to be genetic
and mimics the blood of a diabetic
leaving me incurable
a medical mystery
not to mention infertility
so for me
children are just a dream

Although I tell myself
that I am beautiful
and that I am intelligent
and that I am funny
and that I am a hard worker
and that I am successful
and that I am caring
and that I am loving
and that I am daring
and that I am the best **** friend a person could ever have
To a stranger I'm just a "fat *****"
and you know what?
That makes me really ******* sad
Don't feel sorry for me, I am only speaking the truth.
(C) Maxwell 2014
Brian O'blivion Oct 2013
into this pink grist
run mercury brooks
from the tower of liana
and ruptured mist
pools an ovarian sky
barefoot through milky way city
above strawberry ice cream lane
stratus clouds scale the ruins
and
the maraschino cherries ******* rain
time is not real unless you are an adult
monday ***** so bad sometimes i sleep under
tuesday's promise of money and dog food to
fix my lack of communication skills
© 2013 Austin Stephenson
melli7 Dec 2015
I The Monthly Scapegoat
I feel like **** and
everyone else is **** too I
better be getting it soon or
else I'll have nothing to blame this
shittiness on

What are you looking at?
Go AWAY!


II Pain & ****
ow
that hurts
this better not be from that
steak I had last night


III Paranoia
it's not here
yet
but I know it's coming why
isn't it here yet this waiting is making
me crazy checking for stains every five
minutes afraid to wake up with an unpleasant
surprise


IV Arrival
surprise

followed by: the most
inconvenient
five days out of every month


V Farewell**
good riddance to
bad ******* that
will unfortunately need to
be expelled next month I feel like a
human trashcan
Kara MacLean Dec 2010
cervical cancer
ovarian cyst
open your mouth
here's my fist
stomach ulcer
an inflammation disease
got pneumonia
from just a sneeze
inflamed pelvis
stomach cancer
shut the **** up
you don't know the answer
heart attack
blood clots
watch me as
my insides rot
my brain thinks
I've had every disease
but its funny
i've never had any of these
By: Kara MacLean
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2016
~~~
She's Dead (Don't Think Twice, It's All Right)

A poem, forty years in the making,
Part II of a trilogy

~~~

she's dead

my nemesis,
a truly personalized comic book
arch-villain,
all mine to own and bear,
a cost that I comically
and freely chose,
purchased with only,
just the,
larger part of my life

because of a blood letting,
me letting
a lax laziness of fear,
a kind of blood poison,
an emotional self-imposed over-ruling,
"just cry and bear it,
for the sake of
appearance, children,
whatever,"
that was the insane,
disorganized principle,
who made itself
the king of me

an ugly sweater gift to myself
and
ashamedly,
wore its invisible effects
so quiet like,
this self-imposition,
of long standing,
a faithful traveling companion,
quietly unravelling, deconstructing,
this bearer-wearer

I married the wrong woman,

now she's dead

killed by the ovarian cancer
that I nursed her through in the early years
of its misshaped, too late discovery,
with bedside manners impeccable,
even secret whispers,
for who would believe me,
even begging God to give her
twenty years of
my own time

for he was so uselessly beaten down,
and unbearable miserable,
was-would-be gladly rid
of the final semester,
exiting more gracefully
than via other
contemplated and cowardly
methods of terminations

pronounced cured,
she decided a second cure,
like extra points for
a bonus question answered,
was just what the doc ordered

so she cured herself of
me

with a divorcing, stabbing,
emotional killing motion,
so angry, a petulant childlike biting,
relentlessly, revenging,
for all the years that followed,
inflicting, afflicting
me with mine very own
mental cancerous moments

where
I hated
myself
for hating her,
a petulant child who never grew up,
much,
as much as
my censored heart
would permit,
this truth,
to admit

it debased me,
being a raging hater,
yet a hater,
of both
her and myself,
I was,
her best, most successful
victim
of her final
curse

"you're not over her"
all the fools used to say and
then, and even now,
asking pointedly,
why else this time,
one mo' time,
is this small matter
deserving of an ecrive
all its own?

I guess there are glimmers of
secrets in
a life lived in poetry,
(poetry, her unknowing Greek God's gift to me)
in everything,
even in a
confessional,
a special reserve vintage,
for admitting my imperfections

now she's dead,
losing a race to
her curse,
losing a race,
to the most cruelly, patient,
enemy that a human can face,
unwilling self-destruction,
setting one's own
holy temple on fire,
with great irony,
sourced from within,
this tinder
from the very body
she worshipped,
that went finale
crazy ablaze

where ya going with this,
you ask yourself?

a mixed up goodie bag,
of emotional conflicted torment,
brings me here,
to pen and paper

her leaving me
turned out
as the best thing ever,
drawing down my reservoirs of courage,
mined from the deepest arteries
of a damaged heart,
of a recovered addict

a thousand different tunes come to me,
all nurses aides,
to assist me to
stitch myself,
this memory wound
closed

the one that make the most sense,
an old Dylan lamentation,
correct only in exactly every phrase,
yet forced to admit,
I am indeed,
despite it,
for now,
yet,
thinking twice...
~~~

"It ain’t no use in callin’ out my name, gal
Like you never did before
It ain’t no use in callin’ out my name, gal
I can’t hear you anymore
I’m a-thinkin’ and a-wond’rin’ all the way down the road

I once loved a woman, a child I’m told
I give her my heart but she wanted my soul
But don’t think twice, it’s all right

I’m walkin’ down that long, lonesome road, babe
Where I’m bound, I can’t tell

But goodbye’s too good a word, gal
So I’ll just say fare thee well
I ain’t sayin’ you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don’t mind

You just kinda wasted my precious time

But don’t think twice, it’s all right"
Jan . 17,  2015 ~

Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
by Bob Dylan


It ain’t no use to sit and wonder why, babe
It don’t matter, anyhow
An’ it ain’t no use to sit and wonder why, babe
If you don’t know by now
When your rooster crows at the break of dawn
Look out your window and I’ll be gone
You’re the reason I’m trav’lin’ on
Don’t think twice, it’s all right

It ain’t no use in turnin’ on your light, babe
That light I never knowed
An’ it ain’t no use in turnin’ on your light, babe
I’m on the dark side of the road
Still I wish there was somethin’ you would do or say
To try and make me change my mind and stay
We never did too much talkin’ anyway
So don’t think twice, it’s all right

It ain’t no use in callin’ out my name, gal
Like you never did before
It ain’t no use in callin’ out my name, gal
I can’t hear you anymore
I’m a-thinkin’ and a-wond’rin’ all the way down the road
I once loved a woman, a child I’m told
I give her my heart but she wanted my soul
But don’t think twice, it’s all right

I’m walkin’ down that long, lonesome road, babe
Where I’m bound, I can’t tell
But goodbye’s too good a word, gal
So I’ll just say fare thee well
I ain’t sayin’ you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don’t mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don’t think twice, it’s all right

Copyright © 1963 by Warner Bros. Inc.; renewed 1991 by Special Rider Music
Nothing Personal May 2012
I knew I was dying when you called.
I knew I had barely weeks left
when you said you wanted to meet.
Then came the big news
You were supposedly pregnant
and I was the father.
When on earth did that happen?
I thought a millennium had past
since we last dated.
Back then,
Men still used to hunt in woods
and live in caves
savagely eating each other
when time came.

If I told you all this,
your Catholic sentiments will be hurt.
I barely agreed to meet.

The sun did not miss the chance to disappear
Horizontal, bull like clouds bellowed past the golf course
and winds blew like a ****-storm of hail and blood
It all hurled on my face as I rushed to work.

I remembered how some and perhaps all children were born innocent
But they did not choose stay that way.
Some were caught cheating
some were mortally punished.

The omen was bad.
I met my boss at the boss-stop.
That murky bit of time when you know you
are working late to avoid meeting your boss
and yet ,
you would meet him and
he would stare right at you
a terminal stare.

I decided I will drink coffee
The sun came up
and a girl with beautiful hair
asked me out.
I told her
"Time is limited"
If you want grandkids,
tonight is the night"
She said she had ovarian cancer.
We went out.

I know I had cheated on you.
Maybe a couple of times in the past.
But not on rainy Thursdays.
Not when the amore wasn't with life
but with death.
But see ,
I did that too.

God graced me when the rains didn't stop.
And you did not call back.
All the oncologists were on leave
all headed to warm Florida beaches
They have seen enough deaths this year already.

I knew October was coming.
My dreaded October.
I decided to keep dating this girl.
And the skies decided to stay murky.

On a October morning,
when the sun shone
miraculously
you dropped unannounced to my house
and asked me to marry you.
I resigned to my doom.

A war broke in a Middle Eastern country
And somewhere else in North Africa.
China was shook up by a 8.9 earthquake.
Giant tsunami waves rolled up towards
the Eastern face of Europe.
Australia passed a racial law.

I died on 17th October.
They said without much pain.
Few came by to the funeral.
People decided to cremate me
and blow the ashes away.
There were few people who attended.

You gave birth to a lovely child.
My girlfriend found she was misdiagnosed.
They found oil.
Miraculously.
Stephen Spender got the Noble Peace Prize.
I did not see the sun shine that day, of course.
Lora Lee Jun 2017
Inside this
depth of the perpetual,
I hold onto the light,
learning that
it is not an illusion
but a constant
            fire within
hard as metal
simultaneously lava soft
no longer boneless,
lumped jelly
              in a flaccid bowl
Instead I am bowled over
with new power,
plugged into
my own electric universe
in rushes of ******* voltage
that was always waiting for me
to see it
to allow it inside
the tissues of my body
to flow up and through
intestines, muscle, heart and bone
threads from
                 a glowing orb
that slake
and snake through me
like a river's glory
leaving the spirit on edge for more
and I am ever grateful
to take that light
                  spin it into a gift
                       unwrap it slowly
                            drape it
                              over me like
                                 a flowing,
unstitched garment        
pour its liquid-tipped velvet
onto my follicles, sensitive
tender luminosity
touching all the right places
its silvery essence
flooding me in
drips and slips
healing all the lost
and lonely places,
desolation's imprint
hollows of brimmed-over    
                        despair
I have become
a quivering, stellar bud
bursting forth, each day
                       burning into new
rebirth in quenching torrents
ripe as ovarian silk
soaked in
cellular juice
inner seeds ready to be flung
unto the earth
into the wilderness
into expansion
ready to
bloom
          and bloom
          and bloom
   again
Brian O'blivion Aug 2013
everybody
whispers in shoeshine voices
(through polished brass lips) when the ovarian light hits
her
glittering in designer degrees of loss
and  cherry *******
unfolding an inner eye while opening her wings
to the ages
Emily Joyce May 2015
She looks up into the ever darkening night sky and laughs bitterly
two choices, two horrible options
One diagnosis makes you want to die
and the other it’s inevitable
endometriosis
or
ovarian cancer

She laughs again
staring at the night sky
she's afraid
she can feel it slowly bubbling up
like a *** set to a boil on the stove
except no ones watching over her
no ones making sure she doesn't boil over

She looks up into the ever darkening sky
tears slipping down her face
praying to a God she doesn’t believe in
*let the medication work
Vicki Acquah Oct 2015
God had a green card
But cannot get back in the gate.
The Bricks are thick
But not so tall, I think
God may need to scale the wall.

Are we safe in structures gated
Must we stay in this prison
Where women are hated.
Our bones are hidden in tunnels.

Where has my mother gone
My sisters have disappeared, been
Abducted into a cult; Suspicious
Disinterest displays their guilt.

There has been nothing to report.
Maybe she has run away
To find a new God, Someone has
Touched her, she was not safe there
In her own bed, in her own home.

Some Blackman- Chanted hate lyrics
At her; Encouraged by their overseers.
Asian cultist cursed her in the womb.
In India they ostracized and brutalized
Her melanin, Queen of England, a
******, watches through syphilitic
Eyes without concern.

Beautiful cocoa,vanilla, and mustard
Babies sold or married off to smelly
suitors for ***, before puberty; mere
Children, march and are showcased
For the wicked pleasures of men.
But should I call them men?

Remember we once ruled this planet
Remember once we bore your beloved sons,
Now we work and twerk our bodies
As we answer to your perversions
We no longer dance to bring rain.
We slide down poles reluctantly
Displaying our pain.

My mother is crying for me
My sister's are crying for me.  
God will ignite the lamp of justice
God now has her green card and shall
Return us "Back to our Spiritual selves.

We dared not become too ripe, though
We must remain agile or we be thrown away
Like rotten fruit, never to be seen again

God now has her green card and
Will return us back to our Spiritual State.
Once again - You shall call us "Heaven".

Woman, who created man in her womb..
Became the enemy of man, and has been cast off.
We cannot testify with ovaries or inverted testicles.

Soon there was no natural preference
No perspective of gender has man !
Procreation ceased,the ****** forever
Banned to bear ovarian fruit.
We who remain alive wait.

Awaiting a Foreign God who's eager to
Receive her green card, and save us from our fate.
From the hands of a wicked system
We are doused in the agony of acid
Women perish, For the mercy of death we pray.

My mother is crying for me
My sisters are crying for me.
God will again ignite the lamp of justice
God now has her green card;
And shall return us to our spiritual state.

Remember we once ruled this planet,
We bore your unloved seeds, who
You've turned against us; We shall
Return them unto our bosoms....And
Once again, you shall call us " Heaven" !


© Vicki Acquah
shireliiy Sep 2015
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L Marie Mar 2015
You are too young to die, they say
But now my friend is there dying
And here I am, healthy, alive
And I know they have been lying
For she is just my age, "too young"
With an ovarian cancer.
Her wedding and graduation
All in May-why?-give me answers!
Is this now some sick joke to life?
Where we all dream of full futures
And then when our dreams are brimming
Some win, the rest see raw torture?
It is a twisted circus act
Where the parents tell their babies
They will one day find love and age,
When that promise is a maybe?
We trust our mothers and fathers
To tell us the ways of the world
But here I am, too young to die--
Then there's my friend, a dying girl.
shireliiy Sep 2015
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she was,
"catch of the century"
one in a ball game of,
a googolplex of pitches
and I catch her
every century
of love's timing
like,
    a meteor
          among meteors
                 riding the waves of
                         a supernova on the rim
             of the event horizon
        of our star-crossed fates
marks the spot
home base
we were in love
as earth and moon
in dance
in trance
in eternity
upon the thin ice of space
curling with the flows of time itself
we were the continuum of love
unfurling into dream
budding romances anew
like orchards
caskets of poetry
fermented odes of promise
     to one anther
uncorked,
every summer of our lips, entwined,
open to the experience of being
      conjoined between our hips, locked,
            and interlocking, for hours
              letting our waters flow up
        and
    down
                 stream
             past
the
           point of living
                  for the sake of sweat forbidding
panting breath
stealing motion from tiring
       treading life through rest
                we tread not flesh but the waters
of love itself
      drank from each other
             the secrets
of our love for each other
until none were had
and only that
                        which was truth, remained
and the secret was us, our love, and its fire
the passion aglow
in the magma chambers of the furnace being our future
calling us into the union of what was
      into the future of what could never be again
             that being, our
         loneliness,
                           our time apart, and our time together
                wed into our time
all our time was ours, as I lost myself to her
and she
              lost herself to me, and I forgot her
           as
               I could only remember myself
                            and she
in forgetting me,             could
                          remember       only herself
and I, in remembering myself, only knew her, my lover, herself
and she responded, "My love. I will never forget you..."
                                    "You are memory, and to forget you..."
is to no longer love her,
                                         and since
time has answered our yearning
for love need be deeper
than wood root
deeper than word
                                roots of iron would rust
                                and love needs air with water
                                iron would melt, forgetting itself
                                in the heat of such love betwixt us
                                envy would poison other lovers
                                so, worlds apart from other lovers
& their passions
we needed space and time
and the answer came, in that twilight of memory,
lost to the abandon of all life, we transpired the love of
all things other,
all things not us,
                 not we
                 not true love
I forgot, how her father beat her,
               when my touch, could enter her womb
               grasp her ovarian limbs
               and tell her mother she was safe with me
               and all her mothers became the song of letting go
               for my touch was that without harm
                                                       without sin
                     my touch was that which sought hope
                                       brought meal to her heart
                                       quilt to her nerves
                                       time to her wounds
                                       comfort to her fears
                and myself became distinct from all that be "men"
                                                           ­                    in her eyes
                                                            ­         glad, her heart became
                                                   her man I transcended all otherwise
                                          to be
                                                   the answer to her wanderlust
                                                      ­                                          for lovers
                                          I became her sole lover
                                                           ­       Only, was my name
                                     she was mine - already
                      and bound, as two wedding rings, became our roots
                      I knew her deepest pleasures,
                                                      ­   pain became my enemy
                                                           ­                     in her name,
                                                           ­                     my adversary
found love, in me, she had
and Love became our messenger,
                                         itself the tree, whose flesh was truth; us,
         whose bark was no animal speech,
                                       no madness compeled it
                                       no age marked its passage through time
only secrets of truth wound its coils of being
only truth spoke its limbs, chorused its fruit,
                   sighed its leaves in autumn
                                               chaste its death from winter
                                          its canopy was the spring
                                                     of all possibilities
and we were the plume of being
        the evergreen oasis of marriage,
                                                itself of our founding
                                                        ­      our purpose
                                                         ­            perfection
              eldritch in              cthulian tembre, our love,
                                 unsightly, in the eyes of
                                                              ­             hate's beholders
        the glare of the blindness unmasked
        their ignorances,
                                     absent of the light of knowing
                           truth absconded,
                           they were              set aflame by revelation
                   the rapture of guru, sage
                                            mystic, gnostic
                                            yogi, and all holies,
                                            suckling the fruit of
                                            mysteries long beheld
                                            at the foot of God Himself
                                            plucked from the tree of itself
                                                          ­                              the
                               ­                                                         understa­nding
itself, the wisdom granted, as if
                                                as if 't'were holy water,
                                                as if they wert gossamer cotton aflame
          no constitution for the raw love of wisdom itself
                no breath for humility
                     no peace for surrender, even, could they bear
the audacity, beheld in them, was them
all that
            was left
                          of shame
                                          transfixed, crucified, undone by experience
                          approaching, not of its arrival had they perished
             of its approach, unfit for the wisdom,
                                          in the understanding
                                          of our love had they cremated
                                                        ­                       in themselves
                                                      ­                         all hope for life
                                          they perished of their own futures
             and became the everliving of themselves
that no future beheld them, for the past
                                                            ­         became the limit
                                                           ­          of their potentials
             she and I became, that love untouchable
                                                     ­         imperishablee
                            even unto
                      us,
                           except in the perfect approach
                              hermeticized, canoes set as pyres
                                 where death goes to live
                                     we die by giving to life again
living anew in love
perfection, the price of being
and to fail, death again,
                    absolute, in failure,
                                     death be, my love, me
for adultery wouldst be, my silver bullet
due her, every moment
                she, the scorpion
                her tale, of another's bed,
                                                            ­ like Hailey's comet,
the shaft bore
                        in my soul
                        gored by weeping
                        my frailty, my honor sundered
                as Jericho, bore by powers untold
                but told, all the same,
                                                       she be my death,
                                                       my living be her demise
should faithlessness be her love
i be ******
                      till never I be
                                              in life
                                              never I
                                              be
for to breathe
is to live for love
and my breath
she taketh
in love,                 and surely
the I be                 dead
                              without her love, spent of breath is my life

                              for my life is her love
                   the death of our love
                   my life be undone
                                                   partake, of my grave
                                                           ­        my supper
                                                          ­         my last meal
                                                   when the fox
                                                             ­        was the hen
                                                             ­                       all along...
"Love Is A Losing Game" is a song by Amy Winehouse.
The phrase is soberingly somber, tragic, but it's sooo true.

Some have said, "ALL is fair, in love & war," but only those who don't love, who are incapable of love, say and believe that, in my most absolute opinion.

Love becomes objectively unfair when one's lover loves, always, others.

People who believe love has limits, and who live to spend that excess energy, not on cultivating love, but on fornicating, orgying, adulterating of all their innocences to the point of insatiability with ***, into *******, and becoming vampiric, enjoying blood in their *******, cannibalistic even, of others, in *******, are, ultimately, those who burn WITH the devil, lucifer, and satan in the fires of revelations.

I believe (fear) this became of my soulmate(s).
That they desire. Because they did not believe that I am God's son, and lucifer is my sworn enemy. They worshipped, and may be due for the eternal fires...
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Apr 2021
Life is as predictable as a pair of dice. At times not so nice, at others, glorious. The notorious mix of dreamy-eyed moments with dreadful surprises, not knowing how or when. We are at the mercy of the winds of vissicissitudes. Our attitudes, our presuppositions are tenuous at best. At one instant, your head will be resting on my pillow, at another, on a hospital pillow because you are dying of ovarian cancer. Uncertainty is our highway;  there are many detours ahead. Kiss when you know it is possible, hug when you know the same. Love, in any given situation, is always the antidote. Memories are but for the future, so live now, always with your heart.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
AJ Oct 2013
The door up the stairs,
It eludes my conscience,
I'm ignorant of what is to wipe,
Across my thoughts.

Come here, they say,
Sit down, they say,
We have news, they say,
Stage 3 ovarian, they say.

How could it happen, I ask?
That so innocent a person,
With so much life and vigor,
Can fall into such a void of hopelessness?

She arrives in the door,
70 years young,
Sullen and tenuous,
Her tears fall caustically ,
Down her face.

The older man, hit so hard
Falls short in his strength;
His arms fall numb,
To the pain of occurring loss,
His tears fall caustically,
Down his face.

Hugs are thrown left and right,
As tears shed violently,
The shock kicks in,
Where will she be in the future?

I suddenly think, as quickly as i see,
Their willowing visages,
How long will she last?
And my mind drifts into the unknown.

I see her face covered in sun,
Illuminated by the vigor of health,
Her breaths cease to exist,
Yet she is more alive than ever.

She turns to me and says,
Isn't this wonderful?

My mind snaps back to reality,
The cold house chills my body,
The tears still feel caustic,
And the pain still feels unbearable.

But in all of this misery,
There is one thing,
We can look forward to.

The thing that we can't predict,
The place we can't imagine,
The experience we can't escape,

The Future.
Natasha Teller Jun 2014
if you fill your pockets with stones
if i make a bed in my oven
if we fade into whispers
who will write for us?

I.

your Blitz came in the form
of uterine invasion, tissue and blood
in ovarian prison camps,
red as the streets of London.

****** lives in the same apartment
with a beer gut and "paternal rights,"
sieg heil* forced into your mouth
and you are too weak to fight.

You close your eyes.
There has never been a door
to my bedroom,
you think.

Blood seeps from your thighs.

Every night, you sleep for so long
and waking up is agony:
what if-- what if i didn't have to wake up again--

once-verdant fields are dry,
dreams are dead,

and the stones feel smooth in your palms.

II.

My world is a bell jar, a chrysalis:
I beat my tiny fists against the glass
until they are bruised as midnight.

They cried his name, cried "suicide,"
speculated on prescription cocktails
as they tipped back wine and thought nothing
of the ones he left behind,
crying on the livingroom floor.

Life was taken from me then
and I have no power to grant it now--
I am Rachel, barren, empty,
in need of a Bilhah.

I was born to a trailer park mother
and a farm-bred father,
and I am proud of them both--
their secondhand flatware was better
than any silver spoon

but here in the land of the stars and stripes,
you cannot break your cocoon
you cannot spread your wings
unless someone pays to crack your shell.

I am stuck.

My oven is apartment-sized
and the kitchen has no door
but it is small enough
that it wouldn't take long.

III.

You and I have loved each other for years,
and the cruelty of distance has kept us
from touching each other.

Once, you said you hadn't given up
because we made a promise to each other,
and it hadn't yet been consummated.

Part of me never wants to kiss you,
if only to keep you breathing.

IV.

Or maybe--
after--
we could hold hands
and walk into the ocean
together.
for j.

title is a reference to sylvia plath and virginia woolf, in case that was unclear.

thinking about expanding the last two and letting this be a cycle of four stand-alone poems. idk i just spit all this out at 3 a.m. soooo... we'll see
Bob B Sep 2016
In rural Georgia lived a loving
Man known as Robert Eads.
People with a heart as big as his
Are more of what this world needs.

Life has in store for us
A future we can never foretell.
As loving and kind as a person is,
That doesn't mean that all will go well.

In 1996, Robert
Found out he had ovarian cancer.
Ovarian? How could that be? you ask.
He was transgender--a simple answer.

Experiencing abdominal pain,
Robert knew he needed assistance.
But because of his gender identity,
The sick man met with careless resistance.

As Robert grew sicker and sought treatment,
More than a dozen doctors would meet him.
But fearing he'd make their practice look bad,
Those same doctors refused to treat him!

Shirking their responsibility,
Those doctors sealed Robert's fate.
By the time he found one who would help him,
The cancer had spread; it was too late.

A year of aggressive medical treatment,
Gave him time with those he'd befriended,
And time with family, until the day
In '99, when his life ended.

Robert had never understood
How people could be so cruel, and yet
He bore no hatred and took each day
As it came without blame or regret.

How he had loved his girlfriend, Lola--
A transgender woman and love of his life!
If he were still alive today,
I'm sure that they'd be husband and wife.

In Robert's memory, a pine tree was planted.
His ashes were scattered at the base of the tree.
How often in life people must struggle
To be the person that they must be!

- by Bob B
toward thee spunky gal,
     whose impregnation and debut appearance
     way to brief a tale for Aesop
cuz, (umpteen iterations recounted),

     out the birth canal aye did bop
analogously compared
     to a mealy mouthed measly crop
a spindly tangle of arms and legs

     radiated (starfish like)
     dangled and would uselessly drop
like a raggedy ann male counterpart
     (raggedy andy - how original)

     with limbs that didst flop
and tis no small wonder, thyself as one
     newborn baby body electric
     easily confused with bony glop,

which skimpy weight
     leant convenience as sigh grew older
     to alternate jumping
     (ala pogo stick mode) and hop

from one skinny spindle shank leg to another,
     and manifold orbitz whip
     sawing round the sun
     bore witness to puny laughable specimen

     of a nerdy lad, who (in hindsight)
     grew long straggly hair,
     which NO ONE (except me) could touch,
     nor most definitely NOT lop

off (this fetish) compensation
     for very slight physique
     in dewed time begot
     pencil necked geek milksop,

now at an age prowl lix sing viz
     dragging, crawling, battling...
     slight abdominal bulge  
unlike widower octogenarian biological pop

whose once strapping superman
     like build atrophying (sad sight)
since grim reaper put objectionable stop
upon head of harriet harris,
    whereat two and a half score years
    her longevity did top.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
now, comb may tooth how zen,
sans eight plus ten
'twill be thirteen yars
when me late mum agonizingly relinquished

     an indomitable loo ving life,
     which strong fighting spirit
     (spittle and vinegar) yen
reached a juncture,

     (sans metastasized ovarian cancer)
     forewent heroic measures, which ken
not avail bottled anger within this sole son
telling thee, he didst love ye
     never communicating NOR often!
Yesterday.... Like the Beatles my troubles are here yet seem so far away...
Blood from my body and eyes blinded my visions of cesarian executions that brought light and a beacon of hope that's here to stay..

The year before, Mother Nature ripped my Afro centric other me from the abyss of an ovarian society...

Yet healed the once mentally enslaved legacy, holistically increased that same evil capital into tranquility...

And like an eagle soaring over the highest peaks of hope came to be in 1983...
Shocked the wintery mix with Egyptian ice cold veins and Greek ****** proclivities...

And though the vices that sinned my birth swayed my lens
Wings of stoic proportions haloed to an ascended degree, I contend

Oh I believe...in yesterday...

— The End —