Good morning, good afternoon and good evening readers,

Preamble: This poem is not exclusive to the empowerment of women. It is your right to be whatever you identify yourself as. The atmosphere of this poem is very much woman power because I am a woman, but it is written with the intention for every reader to feel the same empowerment within themselves. Over the years I have sporadically discovered a few of my many dimensions. But as for many of us, there were occasions in childhood where my expressions were trodden on, stamped heavily over many a time. This is not a pity party for all those patronising incidents. I too have been guilty of this in the past towards not only others, but also towards myself. For we are all everything.
This poem is a fuck you to those who thought their words could shape us, a fuck you to the ways in which we neglect our true selves and a fuck you to all of us who are guilty of making others feel that they are a puppet without charge of their own strings.

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Fraying fingertips, tassel toes
Go fuck yourself with your infringements,
These ugly most indelicate strings are not yours to own.

The woman I am, I
whistle forward every day,
Folk tunes spew from my leaden tips,
Sorrowing for the storms we were born into,
To comfort you, to love you, to whisper to you,
We can face this vast landscape together,
Take a look at all the growth,
The world created it for men and women just like us,
As Eucalyptus we frolic in the deafening flames,
And dance poetically with old gypsy kings and queens,
The uncertainty locks me in.

My barbaric, Boadicea-ic locks alight
wildfires in your dry, remote irises,
I revolt in autumnal piles of russet, the bracken
adorning my breast, lest you be offended by
the pink, ripe nipple,
My blanketed burnt orange thighs chafe static
into the stagnant air,
And as for My hazel stare,
It will wet your sockets and leave you thinking for more,
Underneath this sheath I am but a pale pink babe,
Expressing herself through alternating kimonos,
This exterior has fluidity, no fixed abode
Others are more than welcome to
dance for miles in my clothes.

My womanhood is thundering and when I cry,
I cry into other dimensions,
The ocean roars in applause at the purity of it all,
With Maggie by my side
We curse and cackle at the rolling tides,
“YOU WILL NOT FEAR ME”,
You boom through our drenched mist,
“I WILL NOT FEAR ME”,
We bloom into budding, ferocious flowers,
The world would have a better face.
Honest. Ugly.
Mask drop.

Undressing the woman within me, not
For your cardinal sin,
Just limbs,
Not sexual things,
I peel off the silken worded robe,
The abrasive literary jeans,
The pleasing calligraphy tees,
Unscripted and untitled from silent and violent societal curses.

It is my right to be the woman that I am.

In righteous kindness,
C x