Another Unfinished Poem Of Mine!

No means no,
When you hear no it means no.
Not faster or slower,
Or hang on a second baby i need to breath.
It means no.
Women shouldn’t have to take classes on how to protect themselves,
Shouldn’t have to memorise how to put a man down long enough so she can save herself.
What happened to the times when it was you doing the saving.
No means no.
It does not mean let me just rearrange my underwear,
Nor can we move this wall is cold,
It means no.
Nothing more nothing less.
And ill be damned if you say it our fault,
With skirts that short and heels that high,
Who couldn’t resist,
And we’re not asking you too.
When did what you wear had to depend on where you were going and who was going to be there.
Thats like trying to say if you’re going out and theres even the slightest chance of a guy being there,
I want you dressed from head to toe,
No part of your delicate sensitive skin is to be shown.
Who is to say that because we wear a tight dress we want to be pulled,
Maybe it was in the sale or maybe it just makes us feel good.
No means no,
So don’t take anything she says to mean otherwise.
When your mother told you not to touch the cooker cause it was hot,
You didn’t touch.
When you’re father told you no more sweets before bedtime,
You did not eat.
So when your girlfriend says no,
You do not touch.
No matter how you dress it up,
Rape is rape.
It has nothing more to do with the fact she was asking for it by dressing so provocatively,
Then the fact you’re a massive douchebag who cannot take rejection.
In fact such a douche bag who can’t deal with rejection that you usually resort to violence.
No she cries,
A slap across her cheek answers her every plea until her lip is so swollen, her throat so horse
She cannot even utter her pleas anymore.
And when you leave completely satisfied with the new notch on your belt,
She is left with busies and scars that will never fade from her body.
She won’t be able to look herself in the mirror for shame,
Shame that society has put on her,
Blame that it was her fault,
Blame that she is the one who put herself in that situation.
No means no.
And if at the end of the day you cannot get your thick headed skull around that simple tiny word,
You do not even deserve to marvel at the beauty in front of you.
Short skirt or not.

A Poem From The Collection Of Poems I’ve Yet To Read Aloud…

And for a while my only friend was the glass in my hand,
The liquor slipping down my throat, the only warm touch I needed.
The ice the only thing I dare let linger on my lips,
For fear of being burned.
The voice in my head chanting ‘its okay’
Until the words just blur into one.
‘s’k, s’k, s’k’.
The strength of lifting my hand to my mouth
Rewarded by the rush than ran through me,
The shiver that shook my body,
When it was too strong, 
When there was far too much alcohol, in comparison to pop.
Just like there’s far too many emotions for me to deal with in this small body of mine.
A sip for sadness, a sip for regret, a sip for loneliness,
A gulp for rage, a gulp for courage, 
A glass for clarity.
This friend in my hand, was more delicate than I,
Drop me, I will hurt but I will not break.
Break my friend and they’ll shatter into a million tiny pieces,
My secrets whispered into the rim along with them.
My confessions spoken into the glass,
Released for a moment, 
Weight off my shoulders,
Only to weigh twice as much when I drink them back down, 
For having the time to clarify them. 

My New Unnamed Possibly Unfinished Poem

You used to look at me like I was the only thing in your world,
Like I was the one who was holding you safely on the ground,
It wasn’t easy but I held on tight each and every day,
Determined not to let you just float away. 
You’d touch me like I was the most delicate thing 
You’d ever had the pleasure of touching,
Like I was a sacred text and the only way to read me 
Was your fingertips on my skin.
And then you’d hold me so close we could almost be a whole,
So close, I could feel each breath fan across my neck,
Knowing there was no way you’d let me fall 
Into anything but the place I supposedly belonged. 
Your hands constantly finding my hair,
Idly twirling it around and around and watching it unravel,
The simplest pleasure in the world for you,
And I let you indulge because you at least deserved that.
At the end of the day, you would pull my back to your chest, 
Your head resting against mine, 
I’d hear the deep breath you take 
Almost like you were trying to breath me in.
After days apart you would run to me,
As though time apart had wearied you 
And I am the medication you desperately need, 
As though I am the only one who could put you back together. 
And you’d talk to me in riddles and poems 
Because it was too hard for you to tell me straight, 
But you knew I didn’t mind, that I’d take the time to figure it out 
And I would wake up each morning, eagerly awaiting the next one.
And then you would stare at me,
As if you were only just seeing me for the first time, 
As if you had finally begun figuring out the missing piece of the puzzle, 
And maybe you were.

Spoken Word That I’ve Yet To Speak Outloud – I Could Be A Poet

I could be a poet, I’d tell myself,
I mean how hard could it be?
Its just rhyming words,
And then, and then,
Note to self, find something to rhyme with ‘words’.

It was while I was trying to be a poet,
That I became well, this,
I’m not sure how it happened,
But I’m pretty glad it did.

Its like I woke up one morning,
And I somehow saw the world anew,
All the colours so bright and shiny,
Blended just so god damn perfectly together.
Like I walked outside,
And somehow I had paintbrushes for hands,
Able to paint the day how I wanted,
With everything in between, no detail too small.

I’d gained this funny little thing we call experience,
And my how the tables turned.

Those two on the bench,
Were two people on a bench no longer,
They were old friends, realizing they wanted each other,
No, needed each other,
Even after all these years.
I could almost taste the revelation in the air.
And with that revelation on the tip of my tongue,
I’d write a poem about love.

That bird there, with the broken wing, trying hopelessly to fly,
Was a metaphor for me.
Trying so damn hard, but not quite there yet,
But he’d get it,
I’d get it.
And once we did,
My lord, we would hold the world in the palm of our hands,
Or wing, if wings had a palm,
But no matter, we’d still be there,
Or here, or where ever we wanted to be,
If only just by believing we could be.
And with that on the tip of my tongue,
I’d write the poem of my life.

And when you turn and say, its not what it looks like I swear,
I’d say, I know, you don’t have to explain,
But trust me, I’m a writer so what I’m thinking is probably ten times worse than it actually is,
But I like my story better,
Because it involves you and your small, well.
And with that on the tip of my tongue,
I’d write one about rejection.

But I’d stand victorious, stand tall,
Yet never taller than you, not that I could if I tried.

I could be a poet, I’d tell myself,
Its only rhyming words.
And then I realized its more like being that bird,
Constantly moving, constantly trying,
Just to find a home.
And that’s all I’m trying to do,
Find a home, for my words,
So that instead of being in here,
They can be out here instead.