fearlady

 She was born late in the year on a night where the moon and stars could not be seen. No one was sure how she came to be at all, as her mother was shunned from the town as a witch. She practiced ancient ways that scared the townspeople, and refused to accept any of the modern rites, as her mother had done before, and her mother before. When her mother was found to be pregnant, the townspeople dreaded what she held inside her. They thought that it would have to be pure evil, and couldn’t possibly be human. They would jeer at the woman, and throw rotten fruit at her when she went to market, but she would just turn to the person and smile s

Walking into class last Wednesday, I found something on the floor. It was brown and oozing, squished, Half of it sticking to the chair. The other half was ingrained in the carpet, The brown blending with the green In a wet, grotesque manner. Why is this turd on the classroom floor? Should it not be in a toilet? I asked this to all of my colleagues, But all looked puzzled Until one brave soul walked over To get a better look. It’s not a turd Sam, he informed me with a smile, It’s a doughnut. Oh.

Wake up! Everyone walks by in a fog, Sleepwalking through life, Complacently accepting everything. Everything. How can they? When will they spit up From all the shit they swallow? One would think that they would notice That it tastes bad. I almost want to Baaahhhh at them, Those poor sheep Being led to slaughter. Wake up, darlings, wake up. Sleepwalking will get you nowhere But lost

It is a travesty when a piece of technology Is named after a wooded area. It is like naming high schools after Indian tribes that once lived where the foundation of the school Now stands. What is the fascination of naming destructive forces After what was destroyed? Technology destroys nature. What right does it have to bear its name? This fact is made even worse Because the average American Does not even know what sylvania means. Maybe if we were more interested in learning, Technology wouldn’t infringe so much On the names of the natural world, And we could keep the barrier firmly in place, Right where it belongs.

On days that I work, I don’t bother doing my makeup. I wear Men’s jeans and T-shirts. I wear my Chucks with a pair of knee socks, And pull my hair back so that it is non-existent. I climb ladders with my wrench strapped to my belt, And hang off the top, my legs the only things keeping me From falling 30 ft to my death in the seats below. I kick, curse, and hit things until they function again. I work like a man, and look like a man, And I hate it. The one thing that I keep feminine is my underwear. I make sure that it's my cutest pair, So that even if no one else knows How girly I really am, At least I do.

When I think of my mother, I think of old, used envelopes Scattered on the kitchen table. When I would get up in the morning, I would sit with her. She would drink coffee, I hot chocolate, being the little girl I was. We would talk about everything. Sometimes she would grab an envelope To illustrate an idea. She would diagram each part, Sketching her words into pictures, Then drawing arrows and pointing Until I understood. She loved to show me her plans For her new directions of art. I can distinctly remember At least three different periods, Each one branching off of another. She would always say That she got her ideas fr

Stop wasting your time on love poems, You say, You know they accomplish nothing, And they only hurt you to write them. Why don't you work on your other ideas? Your talents are better used elsewhere. If they were better used elsewhere, I say, why are they considered my best works? My love poems at least let me say What I want, as I want to say it. Even if it falls on deaf ears. I hear your words just fine, You say, but I don't always understand them. Do women always take one moment And dissect it into ten lines of agony? It seems a bit absurd to me. It shouldn't seem at all absurd, I say, I know you do it too. Remember last

At the beginning of fall When the nights come faster And the air stands frigid, When all hope of summer is gone, I freeze. All fluid in my body hardens, and I am a walking mound of ice, Impervious to everything, Unresponsive and intolerant. I am not here, these days, As I refuse to let go of The idea of warmth. I leave only a shell Wearing blue lipstick So that everyone can know That I am frozen.