famous artist engravings

Beat Balls

Sometimes I wish I was born
with a small pink sack of
sexual organs that
dangles in between men’s legs.

When I read of men that were
great poets, famous artists,
forever engraved in the history
that they helped shape,
when I read of these men
and obsess over their work
I wish I was born a man.

Men do not carry the weight
of humanity that unleashes
Its godly wrath upon us
women in tune with the
cycles of the moon.

Instead they are elevated
by whatever it is that inspires them.
And I feel extremely inspired
by these men and what they have
done, but their greatness only
seems to Beat my spirit to pulp
under the realisation that they,
unlike me,
we’re born with that pink sack of
power and freedom
dangling between their thighs.

In the days when these men
grew famous and admired,
women were not much more
than a tool, a plaything easily replaced,
a comforter to make them forget
or at least feel better about
all the shit the world was
throwing at them,
all that shit they were
made so famous for writing about.

I want to be a woman
who writes without a comforter.
Despite my soft core, easily pierced
and trodden on,
I want to be a woman
who can do what these men did,
I want to take on the world
and breathe it in just to
cough it back out for what it
really is.

I don’t want to be a plaything
for the men that want to write,
I want this male world
to be the toy with which I write.