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II Poetry Contest: I love how she smiles, suppressing the hurt within.

by sprinkled_with_sass

I love how she kisses everyone else’s scars when she herself is bleeding.
I love how she flips her hair in confidence knowing she ‘got it’.
I love how she sees no limit to her abilities.
I love how she winks at any challenge bestowed upon her.
And without the might of a man she paints a life for herself to be proud about.
I see ‘her’ in each woman. Some of them still discovering, some valuing and some sadly demeaning.

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II Poetry Contest: To the boy who sent me two messages, the first one saying, “It’s not my problem” and the second, “survival of the fittest.” In response to being asked about helping refugees.

By magicaldisco

Tell me how “fit” you really are.
Is it because you were able to strike a man in the head who held a sign that said, “People are refugees too?” while having people cheer you on, praise you, call you a savage, and saying you are ‘a real man.’

Or what about the time when the word started getting around and our football coach suspended you only for 5 games as a punishment and you bawled your eyes out?

Does it make you more fit that you were randomly born into a wealthy family? Is this what ‘survival of the fittest’ means to you? Is this why it’s ‘not your problem’ that a little girl is holding her deceased newborn brother in her arms drenched in blood? Why does green paper separate you from her?

Boy who has only ever known of trophies, if you are so pro-life and a worshipper of jesus, tell me, where did your compassion go? Was it left behind when you started to feel like something was pricking at the frailness of your masculinity? Did you feel the poking of a child crying for help, who you deem ‘not your problem’ when you were marching around with your other guy friends shouting, ‘Stop killing human beings!’ And by the way, Boy, who the fuck are you to tell me what I can do with my body?

I’m afraid that you reveal yourself a hypocrite and a coward.

Now, that is your problem; a problem that the rest of us have to deal with.

To the 5-year-old girls, who are continuously having the world root against them, as their schools burn down, and their houses blow up; you are not a problem, you are a solution to this world of people who lack compassion.

I’m sorry that this white American Boy believes you do not deserve a chance just because of where you are come from.

I see a photo of you smiling, as the buildings behind you collapse and cripple at the hands of nuisance.

You are my faith in humanity.

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II Poetry Contest: March 8th – International Women’s Day

by D. Avery

Some women
Some women had their last treatment today
Some their first
Some were untreated.

Some had heart attacks, some died
Some lived.
Some women felt dead inside
Others felt vibrant and alive.

Baby girls were born today
borne of women become mothers
While others became aunts, mentors, friends.
Today, and yesterday, and tomorrow.
Some will feel joy, some will feel sorrow.

Some women were betrayed today
Some endured violence and pain
Fell down, got pushed around
Got up, tried again.

Women endured today.
Some were supported, some were supportive
Some felt hate, some were hated.
Some gave love, some were loved.

Around the world, women endure
Some fall ill, some rise cured
Some are able to feel the hope and the good
Of a worldwide sisterhood.

 

 

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II Poetry Contest: If you’d have taken the time…

by _bmgalloway

(Part 1)
If you’d have taken the time
to read the small print
in her eyes,
you would have known that
your hardware was not
compatible with her system.
Instead, you tried to make
it compatible and now
her system is broken,
her files corrupt.

(Part 2)
I have watched her almost
destroy her system in an
attempt to destroy the damage
that your hack caused.
She is not a machine,
she is a Woman.
One day her strength
will overwrite every file
that you corrupted.
Until then, she will increase
the font size of her small print
and scream every word
at the top of her voice.
She does not have to be polite.
She does not have to whisper.
She does not have to let you
log in whenever you wish.
She is not a machine,
she is a Woman.

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II Poetry Contest: Commodity

by Medha Khair

She was just a commodity .
She brought life into this world yet she was something that could be traded .
Her happiness , her views , her opinions were irrelevant .
Why ? You ask .
Well just because she had a vagina instead of a dick .
She was a slave .
She was only important when he wanted something , be it a glass of water or a child .
She was taught to adjust to his needs , to look after his happiness .
What of her own , well they weren’t important you see .
They say these things don’t happen no more .
Yet I watch it happen over and over again like someone hit the replay button way too many times .

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II Poetry Contest: Thinking of a voice all through an insomniac night

by @pragyaspenchant

Thinking of a voice all through an insomniac night,
Or living a moment, which makes entire arena bright;
Melody the soul sings,
Or music to which heart clings;
Expression of words extraordinaire,
Or sentences that express a desire;
Silent eyes, that tell stories,
Or depth of heart that cherishes memories;
Someone, whose name makes you smile,
Or someone, who has made your existence fragile;
Something from which we always try to escape,
Or the dreaded mistake all make;
Something that’s enough with silence,
Or someone who’s worth a response;
When millions of such questions club,
Maybe, that’s what we call love?

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II Poetry Contest: Leave her be

by L.L. Lynch

There is a wild flower in a field
And in the breeze she called to me
So strong and tall up to my knees
But all alone amongst the weeds.

Her buds, they bloom like butterflies
From tight cocoons towards the skies
Each one, a different lullaby
That she has sung into the night.

Standing lonely in the shade
Afraid one day you pass her way
And foolishly think she needs to be saved
Plucking her wild roots all up and away.

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II Poetry Contest: Once

by  L.L. Lynch

I was free once-
Back when we were making memories we didn’t know were memories.
Back when my hair was long and wild, just like our summer nights and my dreamy life.
Driving around in the dark with the windows down, looking for sprinklers to jump through until we were soaking wet and our t-shirts were as transparent as my eyes for you, the day we met.
We’d finally drive home and run from one apartment to the next; out the hall and down the steps; walking in unannounced because, that’s what real friends do.
The movie nights with all the oldies who sometimes brought the someone new
With charming smiles and an instant connection; soaking wet and transparent, from that very, very first moment. I was free once. Dancing in our pretend rain; playing out our pretend family game; and in my lucid dreams I choose to go back there again and again.

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II Poetry Contest: The Blue, The Moon, The Stars & I

by L.L. Lynch

The blue, the moon, the stars and I
All in the dark we do reside
Our faces bright as mountain sides
Whose flesh is clothed like virgin brides.

Constant as the tides we are
Both high and low and near and far
Deceptively strong yet weak and starved
Like ballerinas at the barre

We exist for you both more and less
Until you lose all interest
And then you’ll watch with baited breath