Author: poetryfest

I am a soft woman
the flesh on my stomach and
surrounding my body tells me so.
I like to give deep hugs, where
we both breath together
before letting go.
I enjoy smiles, laughter, the gentle
caress of love & joy in the air.
When I dance, I let the music flow
through my body while I release
control for a time.
When I sing, I let the words
flow out into the world, and I
sing for all who may need a prayer.
I do pray, albeit a bit differently
than I was taught to do so, for I
bow my head to the trees
and pray with the singing chickadees.
Because what is life, song, dance, joy,
love, without prayer?

I am a soft woman
and I am filled with the world.

My father’s eyes are greener than mine
Without his bright red cheeks to frame them
His hair is curlier and redder
And yet I find my own growing curlier with age
In the back, at the very base of my skull
Where my anger comes boiling up from

I avoid mirrors more often than not
I see him there and only there
His thin, tight lips looking back at me
The angry furrow in his eyebrows
His stout figure
Short, curving in only at the waist slighting
Only to disappear in the wideness of his legs
More strength in his frame than I will ever have to show for it

And sometimes, I hear his humor in my voice
When the joke grows too dark
And I feel the cruelty that burns under my skin
Burning him that pinkish red color

He’d tell me that was God’s doing
God’s way of showing me where I came from
But if that’s God’s doing,
I’d assume he did it knowing
That some fathers have nothing more to give than what they are
So instead, God gave me all of mine
Everything that my father is or ever could have been
To sit in my bones
To drive the ache in my body
Because he knew it was all some men can bare to give

If you asked me, though,
The spawn, the most human half of him,
I’d tell you it was the son
The knower of this agony
Of having a father
That knows only violence for you
That’s more you than you are

Reflections stare, from the mirror’s gaze
A critic’s voice, that never fades
It whispers lies, of imperfection’s might
A distorted view, of beauty’s light

The scales scream numbers, that dictate my worth
A never-ending cycle, of self-doubt and mirth
I’m trapped in a prison, of societal norms
A beauty standard, that’s unattainable and warped

I see the airbrushed, and Photoshopped faces
Unrealistic expectations, in virtual spaces
The comparison game, a losing battle I fight
A constant reminder, of my perceived flaws and fright

But what of the beauty, that’s unique and divine?
The scars, the stretch marks, the curves that are mine?
The strength in my muscles, the resilience in my soul?
The beauty that’s within, that makes me whole?

I’ll rise above, the noise and the pain
Embracing my flaws, and loving myself again
I’ll focus on health, not on a number or size
I’ll celebrate my uniqueness, and let my spirit rise

My body is strong, my body is brave
My body is beautiful, in every single way
I’ll honor its wisdom, and listen to its voice
I’ll love and accept myself, with a heart that makes a choice

To see beyond the surface, to the beauty that’s real
To love and accept myself, and let my spirit heal

I used to run without a care,
So light upon my feet,
A boy who never had to stare
At mirrors in defeat.

But sickness came, and with it stole
The freedom that I knew.
They said the cure would take control,
And I had no say to choose.

A simple pill, they promised me,
Would help to make me whole.
But what they didn’t let me see
Were the ways it took its toll.

My face grew round, my hands felt thick,
My shirts became too tight.
I watched my body change so quick,
No effort could fight.

At first, I swore it wasn’t real,
That maybe it would pass.
But soon, I learned the weight I’d feel
Would root itself so fast.

And when I walked inside the halls,
Their laughter found my name,
Their whispers bouncing off the walls
And branding me with shame.

I tried to hide inside my clothes,
To shrink where none could see,
But every look, and every pose,
Felt foreign now to me.

I’d hear them mock the way I ate,
As if I had a choice.
They’d say my body bore the weight
Of my own selfish voice.

They didn’t see the nights I spent
Just staring at my skin,
Wishing I could still present
The boy I’d once been in.

They didn’t hear my mother’s voice
Saying, Health is what should matter.
But still, I felt I had no choice,
My heart still torn and tattered.

I clenched my teeth, I learned to smile,
To laugh along as well,
But every joke just stacked the pile
Of things I’d never tell.

I longed to run like I had done,
But moving felt so wrong.
The weight I bore had dimmed the sun
And stole where I belonged.

And yet, despite the pain inside,
The stares that left me weak,
I knew that I would have to find
The strength I couldn’t speak.

I wasn’t just the boy they saw,
A frame too large to love—
I was a soul, a beating heart,
A mind still strong enough.

So slowly, though the days were long,
I learned to lift my chin.
The weight was there, but I was strong,
And shame would never win.

Their words could never break my core,
Though bruises still remain.
My body’s more than what they swore—
It’s mine, despite the pain.

And maybe I will never be
The boy I was before,
But now, at least, I finally see—
I’m worth so much more

stick figures
make no impact

hangman game, a slim
word, no one guessed

stuff myself full of more
than small countries need

wretch, purge, empty as
a stone jar

I am bones
rattled

start again
next day

Warning: This poem below has a lot of crude language.

Do you ever feel like the world is ending;
And nobody cares?
Swaddled in your own self pity
Compressed by every heavy memory
Yet the tears simply won’t come
You lay wounded in a fetal ball
Squeezing a stuffed animal
You’re so touch starved
And it’s the only thing that won’t try to fuck you
You overanalyze and consider
Perhaps your wound is caused by all these men
You unnecessarily invite into bed
They love to tell you you’re such a good fuck
They compliment your ass
Your pussy
Your tits
It’s always the same
So predictable it’s boring
They demand respect from you
They think it’s hot to control you
Their little fuck puppet
One pull of your strings
And you spread your legs like butter
Doesn’t it make you exhausted?
How many men has it been now?
How long has it been since you’ve sworn off the feminine?
Why do you loathe yourself so much?
Why do you want the world to end?

Am I disgusting for letting him strip my shirt from my skin so I can feel an ounce of what I think love could possibly be? How can I hate my body so much, but then also only believe a man could ever want me for my curves, a braless chest made for his hands. I want to scrub the remnants of his scent from my skin and also bask in the fact that he wanted at least some small fraction of me. Shh, don’t talk, it will ruin the moment. The moment where I draw the line and say my pants should stay on. A few moments later letting myself go because he wants more of me so I give and I give because at least there is something of mine he wants to take. Not my heart. Not my mind. Something is more than nothing, right?