feminist slam poetry

do me a favor

Tell me again about
how global warming isn’t real
while you sign the detention slip
for the girl you dress coded
in the middle of March
because it’s been
in the 70’s for the last week?

Tell me again how
wrong men being in
relationships with men
is disgusting as you
navigate to the lesbian
videos on pornhub?

Tell me again about
how gay marriage goes
against your Christian beliefs
as you sneak off to meet
your mistress for the third
time today, whom you’re
leaving your second wife for?

Tell me again why
I, and others like me,
should have fought
harder against
my silent attacker,
while you laugh off
little boys chasing,
and hitting little girls,
saying Boys will be boys?

Tell me again why
my shoulders,
and my knees,
and my back
need to stay covered,
while boys get away
with cut offs that
show their stomachs?

Tell me again why
my breastfeeding
is disgusting, and
why my nipples must
be hidden, while
you watch hours of porn
fantasizing over unnatural
breasts, then saunter
outside to mow your lawn
without a shirt?

Tell me again why
you get a say in
what happens with
my ovaries when
you know in the back
of your mind
you wouldn’t stick around,
and would fight
tooth and nail not to pay
child support if you got
me pregnant.

Please, tell me again.

when i have a daughter, i will shower her in poetry. all of the best poets of my generation, and the ones before and after it. 

i will present to her the most emotional writers i have ever read, both male and female; sara teasdale, langston hughes, maya angelou, ernest hemingway. nayirrah waheed, rupi kaur, rudy francisco, neil hilborn.

i will educate her on modern poetry, the rights and the wrongs of it, how for some, it has morphed into more social media aesthetic than actual emotion, how short poetry can be beautiful, how there is more to it behind the stereotype and stigma. 

she will learn from them. she will learn the art behind healing, the power of her own beauty, the weight of her own worth. she will read these poets and she will grow into and beyond herself. 

and because of that, i will not be showing her yours. 

why? 

because you will pin her wings to the ground. rip her leaves from her branches. 

you write about brokenness like its a pretty lipstick color, like it brings out the color of her eyes. as if getting crushed is what will make her lovable to others.

i will not let my daughter think that being broken, being small, being quiet, is the way to find somebody who will love you. i will not let her be convinced that crying in the shower and barely eating is the only path to the right person. 

i will not allow her to read about what types of women deserve respect and what she has to be to have value. i will not let her internalize competition against other women.

she will learn that she is respectable and valuable because she exists.

she will learn that being loud is okay, that being angry is okay, that being strong is okay.

why?

because that is how i was raised. loud, angry, and strong.

my mother, and all the women in my family, are larger than life. they are filled with command and power. 

my mother can grab the attention of a room in seconds. she can get them to do whatever she needs them to do without protest. she bows to no one. people see her and know she is somebody to respect. it is not in her looks, but in her stature. in her eyes burns a fire that can’t be put out no matter how hard somebody may try. 

she never once told me to be afraid of my volume. she taught me to be loud, and to never apologize for how my voice captures a crowd.

my mother is the first to protest an injustice in this world. she will do what she can to fight back. she did not shelter me from all the violence and evil on our planet. 

“now is not the time to be complacent,” she told me, “don’t listen to anybody who says otherwise.”

she believes in fighting. she believes in change, in revolution. she instilled in me the same inferno you can see in her eyes. she gave me the courage to speak out about anything and everything wrong, and to never regret doing so.

my mother went through toxicity. she had her battle with abusive lovers. and she came out of it by herself. she did not rely on somebody else to save her. she glued her own pieces back together. 

when my first heartbreak came barreling into me, she wiped my tears, held me, and hauled me back to my feet. i fell after that, again and again, but soon, i was able to get back up on my own. i used poetry as a crutch and limped my way back to wholeness. and it is because she did not let me bleed out. she trained me to be resilient. 

so i will give that to my daughter. i will give her an earth-shattering voice, a burning desire to fight, a suit of armor. i will teach her that pain does not make her more beautiful, that being too much for some people to handle is not a crime. that wanting to grab attention does not make her less worthy than those who seek to avoid it. she will grow up knowing that she is not more or less than any other woman, and that women are not to be her competitors or her enemies. she will learn that she is not a tally of cracks and missing pieces, and she will know how to pick herself off the ground.

there is nothing feminist about saying what types of women are worth something. all of us are valuable, and what is bronze to you is shining gold to another.

there is nothing feminist about comparing us to addictions. we are not contraband, we are not a sin. we are not something you can use to take the weight off of your shoulders after a long day. 

there is nothing feminist about claiming a broken girl as your trophy. our sadness is not a prize to be won. if you try and fix us just to add our name to your victory list, you are no better than the one who made us this way in the first place.

there is nothing feminist about making money off of our experiences. stop writing about us. write about yourself. we are not here to be your muses. we can tell our own stories. 

being a feminist is more than just writing about girls. it’s more than calling us pretty. if you’re lifting some women up but putting down others, if you’re romanticizing our struggles, if you’re reducing us to prizes and alcoholic beverages and cigarettes, it’s all a moot point. you may as well not bother writing about us at all.

so no, i won’t show my daughter your poetry. 

and i hope others won’t show their daughters it, either.

—  an open poem to self-proclaimed male feminist poets (who aren’t really that feminist at all) -c.h. // instagram: @evanescent.love (via @poeticaffinity)
Poetry Recommendation: Blythe Baird “Give Me A God I Can Relate To”

“You threatened me not to write this, but I am a force of nature and you will never tell me what to do again”

Give Me a God I Can Relate To” Is slam poet Blythe Baird’s debut collection.

The collection is largely a critique of society that examines the world through the lens of intersectional feminism that delves into rape culture and misogyny, as well as eating disorders, family relationships, and being part of the lgbtq community.

This collection is beautiful in the way a forest fire is beautiful. The language isn’t overly flowery, but each poem is written with blunt and powerful honesty that forces you to face what she is saying, even if it “isn’t something we like to discuss”. Each line grabs you by the shoulders and looks you straight in the eye, and there’s no way not to listen. The honesty of the collection is also what makes it so relatable, even if you’ve never been where she’s been or if you turn a blind eye at the things she’s writing about, you’ve seen it and heard it and there is no way to erase that from who you are. 

Even though this is a collection of page poems they read like spoken word, which can be attributed to her history as a slam poet. Her honesty and passion carries throughout the collection, thus giving it one of the strongest voices I’ve ever encountered in a collection of poetry. Each line is laced with emotion and power, the kind that doesn’t care what you think because she’s calling it like she sees it, and it’s magnificent.

Overall, Blythe has managed to beautifully capture what it’s like to be a girl growing up today as well as deliver critiques on the very bedrock of society, all while giving advice and offering insights that are wise beyond her years. Whether you’re interested in feminism, on the hunt for a book that will make you think, or simply enjoy poetry this collection is for you.

there’s something wrong with catcalling
but there’s something even more wrong
with wondering just what is wrong with you
when you realize you aren’t the girl being catcalled
or whistled at 
or honked at while you’re walking down the block
there’s something wrong with wondering
why you aren’t good enough for street harassment 
because that’s the standard we’ve set, isn’t it? 
making girls believe that they’re only worth something
if someone else wants to scream about it from their car window 
that they should only smile
if someone else points out how much prettier they’d be if they did
it’s just so fucked up 
that we know catcalling isn’t a compliment 
and yet 
we think it’s a insult when we haven’t been
maybe because we haven’t taught our girls
what real compliments are 
or how to compliment themselves first 
and not need anyone else to

(cc, 2018)

To be a woman,
She constantly bathes in gravel,
and is asked to lie
that it feels like coating the skin
with milk and honey.


To be a woman,
She always lays on a bed of thorns,
and she is asked
to deem it as the equivalent
of laying on cotton.


To be a woman,
She learns the skill of halvening herself.
because Earth forbid,
this world does not hold enough room
for every woman to be whole.

— 

Acquelline.K

To Be A Woman. (Revised Version)

girls like her may always look put together, well-trimmed and polished.
girls like her may always look like they stepped straight out of their packaging.

girls like her might make you feel venemous.
girls like her might make you green with envy and red with rage.
girls like her may have everything they want, and everything you want, too.
girls like her may make you forget that despite what you tell yourself,

girls like her have bad days and bad pasts just like the rest of us.
girls like her come from poor families. girls like her have abusive partners.
girls like her are stuffed full of regrets and secrets and riddled with scars.

girls like her are no different from girls like you.
girls like her may look at girls like you and want to switch places.
girls like her might want to see a girl like you in the mirror.

girls like her can be unhappy.
girls like her may not want to be part of girls like her.
girls like her do not deserve unjustified hatred.

girls like you are just as beautiful.
girls like you have to remember that.
and girls like you have to learn that

girls like her and girls like you are just girls.

girls are beautiful.
girls are exquisite.
girls do not need to compete with each other for first place.
there is no first place. there is no trophy to be won.
you win this game by loving yourself and loving each other.

this is not a race.
believe that you are beautiful, and you have crossed your very own finish line.
nobody is in the running for your own self-love but you.

stop comparing yourself to girls like her.
you are not meant to look like her because you are not her.
you are you.
you are supposed to look like you.

there are no categories here.
no girls like her or girls like you.

there’s just a bunch of beautiful girls.

—  girls -c.h. // instagram: @evanescent.love (via @poeticaffinity) 

📸: To Make Monsters Out of Girls by @ladybookmad

I finished it, and oh my god…this book, separate from her “the women are some kind of magic” series, spoke to me on a level above spiritual. I never realized that other people have felt the same way I have until I read this poetry collection. I think it’s safe to say that Amanda Lovelace did an astounding job, once again. If you’re healing or have healed, I highly recommend this book to read. It helped me so much to accept the past and to remember what I deserve.

Take a sip of honest apathy,
yes, she dares insult your authority,
no, she does not have the right.
So, you call her words too big for your tongue,
let them swell up and explode,
‘bitch,’
send her spiralling–
send her to your feet where you’ve secretly wanted her,
all this time; how subservient, how quiet,
your screams are a noose,
your fingers leave their trace of scarlet,
a dot to dot, a cut along the broken line of bruises.
Obviously, it was deserved and you’ll never, never do it again.
Except when your fist shatters the window pane
because she embarrasses you,
except when you’ve had a bad day,
except, now, what a habit this has become,
she’s packed a bag again, so you’ve locked the doors again,
you’re laughing at her audacity, you’re the best thing she’ll ever have,
she’d amount to nothing without you
and the power of her hair, torn in your fist,
is too much to give up.
It’s so easy now the remorse has died;
you can look into her adorable, loving, beautiful eyes,
you can smile,
whilst you chip away her sanity, her humanity,
wearing at her skin by a process of attrition,
until she’s no longer a life.
—  to teach her a lesson
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Poem of the day 80. “Period Rules” by Raych Jackson

my body is not 
a monster.

my body is not
to be hidden under beds
or behind closet doors,

my body is not 
something society
should be afraid of.

my body is its own
planet.

it has rolling hills
and dimpled craters,
arching mountains
and darkened caverns.

my body has its own
sky;
glittering in my gaze
is its version of a starry night.

learn how to love me right,
and you can scoop entire
oceans out of me.

love me wrong,
and my sky becomes
a thunderstorm. 

i am my own
home. 

i know no terrain
better than my skin,
can climb no mountain 
better than the rise and fall
of my torso.

there is no greater
celestial being,
no stronger goddess,
than a woman who knows 
her own worth,
who finds herself 
to be ethereal. 

perhaps that is why
you have tried so hard
to shut us away.

—  goddess -c.h. // instagram: @evanescent.love (via @poeticaffinity)

We know who he is:

he doesn’t like his coffee black,

he can’t drink anything darker than dishwater,

he values good food, good conversation

and he doesn’t mix work and politics.

But we know who he really is:

he likes his women weaker,

he likes to press his finger on your lips;

he likes it when you just. shut. up.

He likes your eyes on him,

but he never has his eyes where you want them.

He knows your hate will melt into desire.

He likes to brush against you

when there’s room for him to pass,

he likes that you flinch

when he breathes down your neck,

he thinks it’s funny.

We know who he is:

we share the same looks of disgust,

we share the goosebumps and nausea,

but we bear it, we shut up, we smile,

we wipe tables,

we serve him coffee,

we count the tips.

— he calls you “waitress”

to those who claim they don’t need feminism:

take a step back.
maybe a few steps back, for some of you.

take a step back out of your world and look at our world, the world you’re still a part of whether you’d like to be or not.

take a step back and listen to the bones crunching beneath your feet.
the spines snapping under your toes. 
the hair tangled in between your neatly trimmed fingernails.

look at our bodies.
our bodies, that we have bent and broken into a staircase for you to walk up.
our bodies, that we have have torn and ripped to pieces so you could use our limbs as a handrail.
our bodies, that have been branded with slurs and jeers that you won’t have to endure because of it.

this platform that you stand upon, this platform you think makes you above the rest of us women who are still fighting, who are still unsatisfied– 
we built this for you. 

you stand atop the skeletons of susan b. anthony, sojourner truth, eleanor roosevelt, betty frieden, maya angelou, coretta scott king. 

tell me, would you tell these women that you don’t need them? 
that you don’t need their accomplishments? the rights they fought their entire lives for? the rights they cried, yelled, protested, and died for?

tell me, could you have done what they did? 

without them, you would not be able to stand so tall.
without them, you would not be able to declare your strength and independence. 
without feminism, you wouldn’t be able to say that you don’t need just that.

feminism.

we are not asking for you to lay down with us, to take the blows as we do. 

keep your primped hair and your manicured nails, and keep your distance. some people will never be cut out to fight.

and that’s okay. we have enough fight for all of us.

we just ask that perhaps, instead of shunning us and ignoring history,
you open your eyes,
and maybe offer a bit of thanks.

— 

a piece dedicated to those who say they don’t need feminism -c.h. // instagram: @evanescent.love (via @poeticaffinity)

i wrote this piece in response to a comment i got under a poem of mine about slutshaming. a summary of it was that she didn’t need feminism, and that she was strong and independent enough on her own. little did she realize, that the very reason she can be so strong and independent and denounce feminism is because, well, feminism. 

keep in mind that “primped hair” and other similar lines are symbolic of a very clean, distanced female, not of any woman of a certain race or anything. 

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“The Truth About Being A Girl”
Slam poem written and performed by Aija Mayrock.

Please go check out this astonishing piece as it is empowering and is sure to give you a confidence boost.

*** this video does not imply that all men are bad or have it easy ***

Do you think you can put me in a category?
That just because I am a girl,
I want to break hearts?
Oh, no-
I want to learn to decode the languages you don’t understand,
to create art that lives for decades and
achieve and learn and thrive.
I do not want to be viewed on the basis of a boy,
who would rather pull me than push me to dream,
I want to create my own rules and break them,
to dress all in pink one day and black the next.
I want to thrill and excite,
and bleach my hair or cut it off,
an unpredictable enigma.
You put me in a box and
limit my opportunities,
Do you want me to break hearts one day?
Why don’t I break barriers first?
Push open doors and slide open windows
and never look back.
—  break

Men really think that feminists are just gonna end up giving up and giving in to the patriarchy in the end and things will go back to the way they were before once they just get a taste of some good ol’ dick, don’t they?

Well, no. This isn’t your Beauty and the Beast-esque stockholm syndrome “love story” that you probably get off to in your fantasies. Feminists aren’t a walking case of daddy issues that you just need to “fix” so you can “turn them” and make them come crawling back to your ‘loving’ embrace.

Not again.

How stupid and naive are the women who adore and worship the ground men walk on, believing that the oh-so kind and benevolent men have granted them the status of being placed on a pedestal. 

It is nothing but a trap. A trap that most of us have fallen prey to since the beginning of our lives. And once you’re placed on that pedestal, you get a hard taste of reality when you find out real quick that that pedestal isn’t actually as high up as you thought it’d be.

But what can I say? Ignorance is bliss. And the woman is groomed to stay ignorant. It will be assured that she will always be willing to serve man and never ever listen to those dirty, filthy feminists, so she will never have to be scorned by those kind, kind men as being a disgrace to womanhood.

The reality is that men will always see you as one of three things: as his property, as his slave, or as his very own child. All things of which are inferior, subordinate, and vulnerable classes. We are stripped of our humanity and casted into the class of dependent little creatures who need a ruler to worship and serve, so that in turn he may worship and protect you.

Gone are these days. All around the world, women are continuing to wake up and look around them and see this universally ingrained system for what it is. 

Patriarchy is the religion of the world. It’s inescapable, it’s unavoidable, and it’s all around us, hidden right in plain sight. 

And no longer will we be obedient to it. 

I am posing, always posing,
Demanding that my body contort, fit your ideals, 
Not a shape that’s mine, 
But one that is beautiful, pristine, perfect,
Because what good would I be if my shape, my poise, my pose, was not one you liked?
—  a look at expectations of young girls // extracts from hero’s pose

In today’s society,
There is a very small box,
That both women and men live by.
Inside this box are things we have been told since the day we started breathing on our own.
How to look, how to act, how to be happy.  
And in order for society to work you either have to have both feet firmly planted inside of this box,
Or be shamed for tip toeing out of it.  
For men, the constant weight of needing to find a nice wife and supporting your family both financially And emotionally is almost unbearable.
For women, however, the expectation is much more unrealistic.
The expectation is much more than just being feminine,
And allowing everything to be done for you.
You have to be thin, but must have curves, you need to be kind and soft yet hard and independent, you should want to be unique yet act and look like everyone else.
You have to obey every single rule society makes up for you.
Wear makeup,
If you don’t you’ll seem like a lazy slob.
Wear makeup,
But not a lot, you don’t want to seem too insecure.
You must wear provocative clothing, but not because you want to.
Constantly having a male tell you you’re beautiful,
Is the only way you’ll ever actually be happy.
Being shy and wanting to stay in makes you the boring friend,
Being loud and going out makes you the immature rebellious teen.
And all of these expectations make’s young girls look at magazines and decide that they no longer want dinner.
Or lunch.
Or breakfast.
All of these expectations make older girls walk down a dark street with keys in between fingers,
For the fear of a man deciding she is good enough,
But not in the way she wants to be.
I will speak until my voice is hoarse, and I will type until my fingers bleed,
To let young boys know that they can wear pink and be a stay at home dad if they want.
I will speak until my voice is hoarse, and I will type until my fingers bleed,
to let young girls know that they don’t need makeup, or a man to tell them that they are beautiful to believe that they are.

Remember the whole box idea?
I want to completely demolish it.
I want the box to completely disappear, to vanish in a matter of seconds.
Because inside that box,
Are things that won’t make everybody happy.
To some people,
Happiness isn’t in a lover,
Or their family,
Or money.
And to others,
Happiness is in a lover,
In their family,
Or in money.
To some people,
Happiness is helping others,
Or traveling around the world,
Or even working a bit more than they should.
This box is driving people to have insecurities,
In the places only happiness should be.
Inside that box lays judgment
Inside that box are things that not everyone wants, or needs.
Some people don’t need to find happiness in the ideal perfect boyfriend or girlfriend,
Some people have already found it inside of themselves.
Little boys and girls don’t need to be taught how to be happy,
They need to figure out what happiness is to them,
On their own.
Teenage girls don’t need to miss meals,
They need to know that their body is the only thing that will ever truly be theirs,
And it’s beautiful.
Teenage boys don’t need to worry about doing sports all year round,
And always paying for their date,
Because they need to take some time for themselves,
And know that they don’t need to do sports to make their parents happy.
They need to know that they can spend their money on more important things than a girl.
And because adults don’t need to compete about who has more money.
Whose child is the most talented,
And who goes to better golf clubs.
Because money doesn’t equal happiness.
Because the number in your bank account doesn’t define who you are.
I’m so tired of hearing the notion that numbers define who we are as people.
Your weight, your age, your GPA, are all just numbers.
Numbers that decide if you’re are in good health.
Numbers that decide if you are capable of being mature or not.
Numbers that decide your future.
Reality is,
Olympians with gold metals can weigh 300 pounds,
12 year olds can be smarter than college kids,
And the happiest person in the world, Walt Disney, didn’t even graduate High School.  
Numbers can’t tell you how kind you are,
Or describe the look in your eyes when you talk about something you’re passionate about.
You don’t need these numbers constantly on top of you,
Life doesn’t need to feel that exhausting.
Once this box is perished,
The world will be able to breathe a little easier,
Fall asleep more soundly,
And be able to smile in their own shoes,
Instead of attempting to fit into someone else’s.
Once it is known to make kind judgments instead of harsh assumptions,
I’ll be able to breathe a little easier,
And fall asleep more soundly.
I hope one day,
People will have enough acceptance to know,
That it is okay for two people of the same sex to be happily in love,
That it is okay for girls to feel confident,
And it is okay for boys to feel insecure.
I hope people will soon learn,
That what makes someone else happy is none of their concern,
I hope people know that it is okay,
To pick their mental health over you,
And to want to be alone sometimes.
That it is okay to be selfish when necessary.
Because once the world is this accepting of people who are different,
And start working with them instead of against them,
We can accomplish wonderful things.
Things that people in today’s world can’t even comprehend.
If this box can disappear,
Kids will be able to be kids for a little longer,
And adults can enjoy being an adult a little more,
People should enjoy being people a little bit more than they do right now.
The bottom line is,
People shouldn’t feel the need to impress unimportant people with things that don’t make them happy.

—  Ellie F.
☼ the ten most beautiful compliments men ever gave me ☼

(1) Insults does not sound good in a pretty girl’s mouth 

We are lucky then, old man, because I am not pretty and I am not your girl 

I am a badass bitch and I intend to set your whole world on fire 


(2) You look so much better with make up on, you should wear it more often. 

The classic opening line of the guy that wants you to suck his dick and thinks it is going to happen

Well fuckboy, you look so much better when you shut the fuck up

Guess none of us is going to have what they want. 


(3) You are so annoying

I am a difficult person that knows exactly how difficult she is ; but number 3 is music to my ears

Because if I annoy the men that want to make me small

 If i am loud and take up enough space for them to feel threaten

 Then i adore what i am, despite how difficult i might be


(4) You fight like a girl 

Yes I do.

Because I am a girl, and my daily life looks more like fighting than living. 

So I am fighting like a girl, this ancient art form. 

Because I’ve learnt all of its secrets from my mother, 

That had been taught by her mother, 

That had been taught by her mother 

That had been taught by her mother. 

And she sew up my armor in the secret of our home, 

And she tied up dread and grief to craft my banner 

And she showed me that what looks like the world to you, is actually the battlefield of women, 

And she warned me against the ambushes I will not be able to escape. 

And she prepared me for the war while I dreamt of the quiet 


(5) You are too ugly for me to fuck you 

quickly followed by number (6) You are too ugly for me to date you

If your ultimate criteria to judge 

If you want to kiss, hug, fuck, cherish, like, love, date, empregnate, marry, divorce 

A woman is how ugly she is or she is not

Then you are too sexist for me to even take the time 

To acknowledge that you are breathing human body.


(7) You look like a lesbian 

Oh, do you think so ? 

More important : do you think other girls would think so ? 

(and by other girls, I really mean, girls who like girls and might be interested in liking me ?)

(I am just asking for a friend.) 


(8) When you laugh, you sound like a witch

You know who else sounded like a witch ?

 All the women guilty only of not fitting into the right boxes, 

That you throw into the flams without any remorses, 

And all the women that chased after you

 For making you pay the painful death of their sisters

And all the women that never got caught 

But spent the rest of their lives teaching their daughters revenge



(9) Boys would not date you because you are too scary 

I am sorry to tell you that, darling, but if you are afraid of me, it is not because I’m scary 

It is because you are looking for a pretty wallpaper instead of a woman, 

Because you can’t stand to confront a woman that speaks her mind, 

Actually, you can’t stand to confront a woman that has a mind at all, 

Because you are not looking for a relationship, you are looking for a power trip.


(10) In the end, you are like all the other girls I know. 

By that, do you mean that I am clever, ressourceful, funny, 

Caring, trustworhty, witty, hardworking, loyal, free, 

Important, smart, fascinating, brave, uncanny ? 

Because that is my experience of “the other girls”

And trust me, if I could be anything in this world, 

I wish I could be just a little bit more like the other girls I know.