When They're Down (Colorized)
October 26, 2019
October 12, 2019
Dark Red Mask
October 10, 2019
The Lonely Tabernacle
September 26, 2019
September 23, 2019
August 1, 2019
March 7, 2017
To escape from the cultural lies of
The inferior female,
Cry her tears back into her eyes and
Smile as his fingers dance on her skin.
No, his fingers do not
Dance, waltz, nor tango.
His fingers make mockery of her blood,
Painting clouds of black and blue.
But it was just the desk, he says,
That was in the way,
While she was putting the dishes away.
Of course, not
The lies whisper,
The younger the better.
The more fertile, the more children.
But silent prayer is whispered
As she is numb and
She digs her nails into
Life lines of palms,
And bites her lip to feel the sharp pain
Because at least that is a
I will not cry my tears into my eyes,
I let them flow like the runoff when
The soil cannot soak any more.
The body being soil, not being able to
I will not let his fingers dance on my skin,
I will scream, my feet will dance on him,
My scream will tingle the drum in his ears, and
Extinguish the flaming fire on his lips.
My fragile body will fill with anger as my eyes quiver,
I will kick the walls instead of the
This is not what I remember.
I remember my mother telling me,
I’m an untouched flower, so pure,
But instead, in my eyes,
I’m a rebel, no cure.
June featured poetry
Mark Theodore Meneses
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