Taboo Tattoos and LesbiansMy mother used to tell me,As she took a long drag of stale nicotine,That I should stay away from lesbians,Because they would make me take up smoking.What she didn't knowWas that I thought cigarettes would make me skinny.And thus, My unfounded and irrational Fear and attraction to the utterly beautiful was born.I had fallen for breasts before I grew my own, and took to the internet with my misguided teachings,as so many seem to do.And there, in a ten-year-old's Google search for “sexy boobies”,I found my first love.A nameless ivory queen with a butterfly under her chest, and a tree branch on her ribs.Similar to her explosions of fury at the idea of lesbians,My mother had warned me about tattoos,With threats of cancer, the plague, and the death of my first born over my head.And as a girl with her shoelaces always untied,who only looked one way before crossing the road,I lived on the dangerous side of life and was naturally smitten.The
SIRENNeath the woe of Ulysses' blood and toil,A sea of heavenly-fury once awaken'dHer gaze clad in honey’d delirium ablazeOf such beauteous prize, he shall yield;For her tongue hath seized mortal desireAnd lo the Moons’ glory shall weep in vain!Journey’s of madness sung with promise;— A rising tempest hurl'd to Hades reignOceanic rhythms untwine love forbidden,Breaking the mists of insatiable dreamsThe Sirens call ebbed like darkness falling;Her lust bleeding into the mythic abyss ..His anguish bestow'd the folding tides,Unto their lips would perish in mysteryDeeper jewel'd the haunting of his soul,Forsaken to the ink of Orpheus' muse.And ghostly twilight shone low and pale,O’er the hum of those ethereal seasLong wherest his heart shall forever sail— Arthur Crow © 2014
How To Be A WriterMy parents said I shouldn't be a writer,and throughout the last few weeksof scarcely sprawling stray thoughtson the napkins that line my trash bin,I'm inclined to believe them.Without a medical degree folded in my back pocket,my wallet's looking a lot thinner;I'm left with an abused and worn vocabularysagging on the edge of its seat,stinking of whatever poison-laced shock valueI inject into my phrases,and festering in the melodramaof a teenage conspiracy theorist's soul.(It smells kinda like rebellion, miniskirts, black nails, and rolling eyes.)I hate to be the cliche of a struggling artist,But a cliche is better than a nobody, or so I've read;So at least it's something to hold on to.My notebook is growing blanker by the sunrise,and with every passing week,my head falls on a layer of billsinstead of silk-lined sheets.My pen's ink has started to boil and roton the other side of my writer's block,and though my thin career is a hard pillow to accept,even harder wou
I give inIt took a second, or maybe a minuteIt took a life, maybe a death,It took a little more than breath,It took a broken moment,It took a desolate heart,It took a bit of poison,It took a spotlight, then darkness,It took a gust of wind,It took a torrent of rain,It took a winter snow,It took a soul-crushing eternity,It took a moment of self-exile,It took a moment of reservation,It took a clear blow,It took a bit of acceptance,It took a bit of temptation,But finally...
I am a womanI am not an object. You cannot use me. I was not made simply for your pleasure.I am not a pretty picture to be used and thrown away. I have a heart, feelings, dreams…. I have a purpose here. I am a human being, a person like you. And it hurts me when you treat me as less than human. It hurts me when I become less than a whole, And just the sum of my parts. It hurts me when I become just something to please you. It hurts me when you strip away my humanity, My clothes, My purity. Even if just with your eyes and mind. You cannot stare at me in longing. You cannot undress me with your eyes. You cannot force me to kiss you. You cannot grope me as you see fit. You cannot take advantage of me. You cannot have your way with me. I am not to be dominated. I am not to be violated. When I say no, I do NOT mean yes. When I te