If I had wings and theyIf I had wings and they had none, then flightWould mean a quick escape whenever lifeBecame too much. I'd never have to fightWith them. I'd take up ease and give up strife.If I had wings and they had wings, then flightWould be a game, a sport, a test, a war.Then bigger, better, faster wings would fightA better war and I'd start keeping score.If they were bugs, I'd be a butterfly.If they were butterflies, I'd be a bird.If they were birds, I'd be a hawk, I'd flySo high, I'd never be observed or heard.And now I see the problem with my wings.I still need justice, skill and might. Old things.
She will not bendShe will not bend, he will not spend, and soThe dance goes on, with sparks and fights and nightsMore sleepless than a night should be. The showGoes on in routine tasks, remembering slights.He will not lend a hand, she will not mendThe anger and the fear; and so in spiteOf better natures, yin and yang don't blendBut stay suspended, never mixing quite.A world of darkness looms but what they fendOff now is one another. So it provesThat what is closest finally turns. PretendIt isn't so and point to tender loves.But maybe one day if he will just spendA little time with softer voice, she'll bend.
I picture states where menI picture states where men are not allowedTo vote and never is our common senseSuspended for one day. The women, proud,Protect the children first and self-defenseIs practiced in a way that damps the fuseOf conflict best. You jest. Don't laugh. I say,You've had your chance and now we want to choose.And if you're nice, then you can stay and playBy rules of decency. Obtaining powerIs not the only way to live a lifeThat's full and rich. And in their final hour,How many men will downplay love, take strifeAnd all its risks instead, to champion self?Too scary. Take away the vote itself.
I thought you drowned that dayI thought you drowned that day in heavy rain.Just like those multitudes of cat and pup,It came down fast with thunder like a trainAnd lightning strokes. If you had given upI wouldn't place the blame on you alone.You had such help along the way to grindYou down. They left you flat, depressed and proneAnd seeing you that way, they didn't mind.The ground was soaked and you, a paper doll,Lost all integrity. You turned to pulp,All substance gone when drops began to fall.I couldn't help, I turned, I had to gulp.Next day the sun came up and dried you out,But you're still thin and when it rains, you pout.
Women will be womenHe said that women will be women andNo matter what the recognition thatCould be extended to them, just as planned,They always end up at the start, it's pat.If you thought you could never travel far,How would you find the energy to go?If every effort left you stuck in tar,Or worse, on ice, you're sliding back to No!Hold pretty things, like dreams and butterflies,The purple flowers, orange fields, the wings,The yellow petals, hope that never dies,The sunny days, fair skies, all girly thingsPronounce them good and do not recognizeMisogynistic spew and stupid lies.
I think that online loversI think that online lovers have to beMore perfect than the rest. It's easierTo say I'm sorry in the flesh. The knee,The thigh, the hug, the kissfar sexierIn touch than wish. But then again, the talkOf love is better crafted sight unseen.The one who grabs must now grab words and lockThe feeling in a phrase that's sweet or mean.And if you say the wrong word then and meanTo flatter or impress, correction's doneWith further words in black and white. The scene,Retracted by more words, makes love undone.I fantasized of loving you onlineBut I'm less perfect than the rest, I find.
You cannot have a fantasyYou cannot have a fantasy of whatYou see and feel, for after all what isIs here; I've seen you stash the now and shutThe is away. I often wonder this:If you would turn a dream away to saveThe final denouement for fantasy'sLast day, as if you'd rather yearn than have.But I don't prize the fantasy. I seizeThe thing material and turn my wantsInto the now. Perhaps it's second rateOr third or fourth but he who always plantsMay never reap. I see you in that state.Sometimes I turn and reach and almost touch.You look away; the fantasy's too much.
A Peoples HistoryA People's History, these United StatesAlready I'm ashamed to be a partOf Western hemispheric life. The weightsOf every institution's evil heart,So heavy you would think we'd hardly move.We should have choked or crashed or paralyzedOurselves, or flipped or jumped or drowned or doveWhen we had learned and thought and realizedThe awful truth of history built on death.We often query, is it right or wrong?As if the generations ne'er bequeathMorality and memory's short not long.I do not know if I shall finish this.I know the ending and I hate what is.
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