Monday, January 28, 2008


Love, acceptance


Can’t be myself

Want to be the best

Everything my neighbor wants

Considering the consequences before my actions

My actions? Or your desires?

Avoiding negative reactions

Be anyone else that fits the descriptions

Not me, not myself, not for me, not for myself

“Egoist”; the password to my self-hate, the key

How easy it is to mold me

Circle but I fit into triangle, square

Acting, show, denial

Running away from the person I can’t accept: Me

Boy? Girl? Friend, lover, enemy?

Do I want the best of others for myself?

Ignorance, blindness

I’ve built myself to become what? Me? Or a robot ruled by anyone else’s feelings

Anyone who could love me, accept me.

By: Maria

Category: other


Silent but

I can still hear you

Your voice.

Cold but

I can still feel you

Your touch.

Bland but

I can still taste you

Your flavor.

Neutral but

I can still smell you

Your fragrance.

Empty but

You are still with me

Your presence.

By: Maria

Category: other



You’re out of my life,

And all I can do is watch the minutes, hours, days go by

Without you

I think of all the things I could, should, would have said

Now I can’t speak because of my tears being shed

Not here

We wanted to be together till we die

And we were never given the chance to say goodbye

Not together

I think of what could have been

And if you ever think about me.

By: Maria

Category: other

Wednesday, January 9, 2008

Salon of Shame- Part 1

Salon of Shame - Part 2

i'm afraid to say this because of how you would react

tiny. you shrunk
me so i was tiny. you and the role you play (and it would
be so fun to be your therapist).
how can you not feel anything?
fuck, [name_deleted], i loved you.
remember talking on the phone?
the vagina monologues?
your infatuation with girls and me always trying to help?
i was there for you
at least i tried
could you have said anything like that the night
before i left
you, [name_deleted], were one of my best things.
GODDAMN IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You're "moving on?" and i was forced to move on and you would
probably have wanted me to leave alwayz.
fuck. i got angry. though i don't know what at. your unwillingness to get close to pain? your part of you that pushes back emotions and

"FUCK YOU!" -- 2003 -- I remember sitting in early morning Russian class and instead of writing a sappy love poem, really allowing myself to be angry. I never finished the poem because I thought it was too angry and I should always be nice to [name_deleted], no matter what.

By: Theadora

More Untitled Pieced by Theadora

pretty h
shoveled out the house
fringe of worms
stomach doubled up
what is a shoat?
all played
stumping out the door
like the back of his hand

"pointless rambling poems" -- truly a WTF. a month later it was a wTF. 2003.

they write about
finding pleasure through pain
after I cut
pink, open wounds
I went in the shower
and got down with myself
feeling the cuts burn
with the water
and the vibrations
Almost cried
I'm gone
you're home
not happy

"I am Alone and No One Understands My Pain" -- 2003 -- Two days after we moved to a new state.

at your
dark empty
lost in myself
so deep no one can catch me
and that's when people get afraid
at your
surrounded by nothing
surrounded by...
lashes made thick
apparently I have
nice skin and nice eyes
"I started with my feet
and worked up"

--2003, before we moved.

is it a crime?
one may wonder
to be out
on the front lawn
when it's about to rain?
and you know what you
be doing
is staying inside to help unpack
I ponder that question
when thinking of persons
that I left behind
Can I gain anything
from sitting here remembering the
night we held each other
tight enough to make me
(and I hope you)
I tremble now
in the rain and the cold
wanting to run back
to your fire
"It's cold outside and I have no raincoat," I stutter.
Will you let me in?
or, because you think I'm better off gone
(which I am, actually)
would you even remember me at all
even if I'd say --
"I'm the one who turned to you first
making a frantic phone call over Thanksgiving
--Help. I think I'm gay. What do I do?
taken aback by your surprise
but whatever your response
I chose you first
trusted you enough,
my friend
I listened to you.
to YOU.
Not some fake put-on-for-performance
made-up face
wallowing in whether that crowd finds you funny.
I wanted something deeper.

--2003--"I am Alone and No One Understands My Pain" -- The correct words coming out of my mouth are as follows: She say it's cold outside and she hands me my raincoat She's always worried about things like that. Thank you, Matchbox 20.

the stars
with their fiery lights and passion,
play cascading melodies on
blacks and whites
scribbling on paper sticky with everything wrong
and for a minute there is freedom.
but lights are destined to go out,
and for every paradise gained there is a paradise Lost
with vast emptiness and longing.
the compass, stone or golden, will lead to the stars -- for
somewhere in that broken emptiness is light again -- stored
for the one who seeks it.
I just wish I didn't have to go alone.

"Obvious Metaphors" -- 2002 -- another Paradise Lost/His Dark Materials inspired poem. I remember being told to keep a journal and 'let it out', hence this poem.

By: Theadora

Dear, 1.

beauty is an elusive goal
did you?
will you wait for me?
I'll come back and we'll
smash more bottles together
animal crackers too much
your fingers are smooth
but wonderful
with character
what can I say?
I'm confused
listening to that station that rocks.
as I sit here pondering --
are YOU worth it?
are WE worth it?
do I disappear and leave you forever?

By: Theadora

When I "Thick Love" You

so precious
those moments
we were together
in the dark
I held you forever
and you took my hand
somebody wake me up
I think I'm stuck in
last night

you told me your secrets
you fed my soul
as we lay there
our heads together
in the dark
laying on some neighbor's grass
and oh, fuck it now
when a car came
help somebody wake me up
I think I'm stuck in
last night

well I'm leaving
and you're "moving on"
and I just cried for you
in the dark
for all we had
it's gone
but help
somebody wake me up
I think I'm stuck in
last night

By: Theadora

Solstice Prayer

Thirteen candles/phases of the moon/
praise the Goddess
"light one candle"
one by one, we went up
"this is a candle for all the women who have ever been here"
"for the young feminists, picking up the torch"
"for poverty"
"for discrimination"
"for someone to replace Bush in the next election"
i went up
in this circle of love and strength, i lit a candle
"for all the victims of sexual assault, spoken and unspoken"
the women beckoned me back later --
"did you see? did you see?"
my candle
half burned/dripping/short among tall/flames/fire with anguish
in a circle of thirteen, mine
like a sign a scar
stood out pleading crying
whispered no, shouted, "this too shall pass"
phases of the moon/o matriarch/help/peace -- 2003

By: Theadora

I Talk About Sticking My Fingers Down There But There's No Fucking

I looked at my vagina today. Tchaikovsky playing in the background, looking out, IN to this mass of tissue. I've never done that before.
Parents were gone. I put on music that described me, so I put on Tchaikovsky. I looked at my
vagina today. I didn't expect it to be oh so red. Oh, I was in.
I'm not sure if I found my clit or not.
But I remember that I usually hate staring myself down in mirrors -- so much fat, but my pussy...
now that was interesting.
it was quick, but sweet.
Listened to that concerto
while doing my
I had the perfect mirror.
Oh God! Oh!
Wymyn, I looked at my vagina today
I saw myself

"Other???" "More than like???" "White middle class hippie feminist oppression?" -- DEAR LORD! The last thing I would want anyone to say to be after sex is, "now that was interesting." Interesting to note that during this time I was the skinniest I have been in my short life, so I don't know where all the fat I was bitchin' about came from. "Oh God! Oh!" should be, well, I don't know. (2003)

By: Theadora

you're here

you're here
i bare my chest
you're here with a henna kit
and as I lay down, you draw a
picture on my abdomen.
in my eyes, i reflect blue skies
free palestine protests, having him
and his girlfriend cheer me on from the bus
while i was standing on the
ledge by the Christmas tree.

you're busy with your work
marking me up aware that i am
here with my shirt off? letting you/entrusting
your hands to paint my body
that thickness dissolving my stomach? love?
yes, i feel you molding my skin, not for lust or eroticism, but for
into a platonic heart. later, it turns into a burnmark.

"more than like," -- 2003 -- I wrote this about ANOTHER person after I had a dream about him. I wanted to express my friendship. Needless to say, this caused more tension.

By: Theadora

My Body

My Body
is what I haven't been able
to fit in to
That dress, those jeans.
I'm "too curvy"
for these people.
A part of me wants to
ask him:
am I too fat?
too feminist?
is there too much dyke
in me for a guy like you?
you moved on. i moved locations.
Once you told me your secrets --
never the same.
I want to go home and just burn my mirrors
because the patriarchal society is getting
me down again. It's just the typical female thing.

"white middle class hippie feminist oppression" "i am alone and no one understands my pain" -- 2003 This was written about someone who was supposed to be only a friend and I know at the time I meant it in a completely platonic manner. Needless to say, the poem caused a bit of confusion.

By: Theadora

Ode to Walt Whitman

I sit in the bath reading "Children of Adam" again
sometimes you make me uneasy, O Walt.
Your sweeping love as a man -- not all have the
privilege to love as you do.

I sit in the bath reading "Children of Adam" again
been collecting grass on all our hikes -- invoking
that Whitman spirit. natural high.
I'm careful that the book doesn't get wet, which is silly of me
coz Romantics are meant to get dirty.

In class -- when they ask
about why Whitman pulls my
heart strings, I couldn't tell a story about
sex/gender/nature/nurture/women/man/another altogether/fluidity
To love and not be labeled. To exist and not be labeled.
To be an expression of natural gender and sexuality.

By: Theadora

The Bath Poem

I'm shining now. On the bus.
Hearing her voice. Imagining
a genderless lover.
pins me up, locks me down m/f/m/f,
but I'm shining for the orgasms that are
safe to have in my bedroom.
With my parents close.

"More than Like,"
O.k., so while I didn't have a lover, let alone a genderless lover -- and while it's creeepy that I talk about orgasms in the same poem as my parents, this poem was very important. You see, I had been reading a lot of Walt Whitman and discovered that I didn't have to like only girls. And through Walt Whitman's poetry, I realized that the discomfort I felt around actually being a girl was o.k. So Whitman, man, was a big step forward in claiming myself. I didn't recognize this at the time, though. Actually, I wrote "stupid fuckass poem" underneath it.

By: Theadora

My Womanifesto

my cunt is for me
i'll wear my sexual assault awareness ribbon
keep track of my Plathian tendencies
be sexy
and unafraid
my womanness
will shine
my lesbianism will go unafraid
i am loved
bashing the shitheads
day by day
who am i?
yes, oh yes.

"White Middle Class Hippie Feminist Oppression," "Fuck You"

By: Theadora


A blank canvas
my short-sleeved pretty blouse
looks horrible because
of cuts on my arms

People in my class
describing cutting on MTV.

By: Theadora


i cant rite a coherent line, love
cant rite what comes after a
comma, cant form those complexities
chill, baby, i'll see you tomorrow
i just cant weave my way around the natural
order -- telling of beads

"More Than Like" -- I don't remember who I wrote this about, and I don't remember why the natural order reveals the telling of beads.

By: Theadora


drums bongo
from a shady section
of Liberty Park on Sunday
(the hippies had been holding
gatherings there on the beginning
of the week for at least thirty years).
It was the drums -- not the hippies -- they are an added bonus
that drew me to the place.

take me to a scene of
intertwining bodies/hemp/pot
a free-for-all dance
however one may move
women connect kiss on blankets
I watch parents put flowers in their daughter's
We are either energized, spiritualized, or just high
as the punks as me for a smoke
I realize how much I'm skipping
ready to ripple inside
could be quite an illusion
under squinting sun
how much of this is free?

"Other," -- ah, the allure of the bongo. true rebellion.

By: Theadora

Monday, January 7, 2008

My Drag

My Drag

Lorraine and lesbianism grew out of me. Somewhere there was a deep connection to womanhood, to professional attire, makeup. Am I genderfucking? Lorraine, the woman inside me, exists because notions exist. She is my excuse for pretending. She may as well be the false nose ring, the provoking question, the Catholic worker, the wymyn-loving-wymyn-loving-birkenstocks, and the tube of lipstick. Is she real? I can't tell the difference anymore.

"I am alone and no one understands my pain" -- I seriously felt that any time I asserted my womanhood, I was faking. It was my drag. Yet it was my community (as evidenced by the earlier poems).

By: Theodora

i want to give you a hug

i want to give you a hug

because i am enamored with you

it's important for you to be
familiar with your own body

your breasts are not going
to feel like a bowl of jelly
or raspberry jelly

i am quite tactile and getting a mini breast
to lump-search is very fun to squeeze
now i'm holding a testicle

"obvious metaphors," "more than like"

By: Theodora

Oh: One Love Poem

I want you to come back to this town.
I want to show you the lake again and I wish we had
actually held each other
like we used to and sometimes I'd rather be inside your
sweatshirt than "No G.O.P. 1988."
I want to talk to you about my gender issues,
which aren't really issues at all,
just normal
and I love your guitar
i didn't do my college comp homework
or my Spanish
but you, I did you

"more than like," "obvious metaphors"

By: Theodora

I Have A Lot To Say (But I Can't Say It)

I Have A Lot To Say (But I Can't Say It)
pretend to be an adult
who has a curfew
listening to Tori Amos'
"Strange Little Girls"
Ah, I'm in love.
"yes, I know what
you think of me
you never shut up."

"Ode Poems" -- I was really into Tori Amos.

By: Theodora

I can see Sitting Bull

Que Hora Es?
time for land
use and imperialism
I can see Sitting Bull
over there --
shadow puppet mechanics --
are two independent clauses
(represented by a tape dispenser
and stapler)
that cannot be spliced by a comma
or stuck together
"the car is always a comforting place for
unless i'm pissed" (says a student next to me)
there's nothin' wrong with that sentence, people! there's nothin'
wrong with Sitting Bull!
only a wimpy comma

"Pointless Rambling Poems," "other" -- "found poem" of Junior year English class

By: Theodora

Please Don't Turn Valve

Please Don't Turn Valve
i hoped to pull it off/
speaking to the rock
it didn't go so well, me & the/stone
on the ground with a luggage/tag
"please don't turn valve
pipes leak."
in black marker/gold thread
i thought, how appropriate
since a rock can be pushed
don't want to sit cold-faced nor be
chased off a cliff by a boulder.

"Obvious Metaphors," "Other" "White Middle Class Feminist Hippie Oppression"

By: Theodora


imprint in the grass
Michelob light smooth draft
whoever dropped
the glass bottle must have
a need for lean golden
woman in pink talking on her cell phone
in a white car
slender petals peer
with black center

"Pointless Rambling Poems -- I really thought addiction and alcoholism was the coolest, most romantic thing in the world. Hence all my poems about 'hitting the bottle' when I led a very squeaky clean lifestyle. We're back to 2004.

By: Theodora


teapot is plastic pink
feminitea steeping
raspberries with rough warrior

lid is closed
my lid is closed
translucent drinking abuzz
with herb closed soon
it will be bus-catching time
but i spent a doll-
ar eighty-eight on
magenta calmness.
i can sit for a while.

handle skinny -- half a heart?
cuts through the opening
i look through the shape
browser's is outlined in bright
outlined my eyes
pink tea hearts
as a group of three women
my sisters
cross the street in the rain

By: Theodora


we eyed the box/homosexuality
and its genetic/origins
want some jujubes?/
don't let gender frame you in/let's shred
cardboard and the binary on the floor/
look, you're already defying roles women
aren't supposed to break stuff up
and i know i am
a man so am i supposed to break stuff up?
society gone with each candy eaten and
every box top lost

"I am alone and no One Understands My Pain" "obvious metaphor poems" -- o.k., this is where I start writing about transgender stuff. in 2005. really, I was at a concert and I stole someone's jujubes and we started shredding the box. that's where all the best imagery comes from, right?

By: Theodora

The Lion Sleeps Tonight

letters are funny
bcuz they are permanent
sleepy I can't talk to people
Puke doesn't hold back
on holidays (is today real?)
feeling this separation
and crappy metaphors.

"I am alone and no one Understands My Pain" -- the key expression of angst here is badapada.

By: Theodora

no one who is in love actually jokes about it

spiritual affection
these fishsticks are taupe
my letter is subconsciously addressed
be with the land, there is no fence*
I don't need to ponder the star

*well, ideally. ideally there is no purgatory either.

"pointless ramblings" -- I have no idea where my wise-ass ideas about love came from. As in the idea that no one who is serious REALLY jokes about it.

By: Theodora

My Wymyn Life

life is such a new religion
compared to...

and for those of you who didn't know,
Virginia Slims -- such the epitome
of sexist advertising
and "I don't really like talking
about my life much"
cos "they're just titties"

She thinks she's dying, my dear. The
imprint of thirty-five year old
barbed wire. It's stuck. She needs to
talk, but stuck being one of those
under-age people. I
can't shove phone numbers in her face or places to test for STI's.
She's not eating. It's that image.

people making out on the couch above my head
thinking they know all about
love but they're only freshmen.
Not that I know any better.

I can feel her hair brush mine
such a cliche, but when she kisses
me and says something generic
like "iloveyou, you're awesome, let's hang out"

I had girl on my lips, in my ears,
through my hair.

The beautiful gay man
tosses me a dead flower which
I would have smashed between the pages,
but it was too,

By: Theodora


she is my strongness
see her portrait
all in blue
heralding change
good sweet things
she lies in
arm tattoos
or wedding tattoos
or engagement rings

she comes to me in the form of
musical madness
tales of incest and partying
him asking me questions about his sexuality
the rustle of pages
the magic of words
Toni Morrison words
battles with cancer
and she died young
left a son
and her grandmother
the only woman who raised her because
her ma was crazy
ripping off the mask in the ER
and saying I love you

one last time

I see her
on my wall
in my piano
in imagined tales of abuse
wearing a boa
the look of a half-dead guy
and a little boy
who's smart
enough to run us all over
and can parrot back statements like
"Free Leonard Peltier"
"Anarchy in the UK"
"You're White Trash"
or at meetings
beating down the corporate flag
smoking pot
in fishnets with a hole in the toe
comes through with long hair
and every healthy book about cunts,
lesbianism, and the Pine Ridge Reservation
I see her
on the stage
in a theater or concert hall
stuff from the deepest part of me
and I quake
out in a trailer in the middle of nowhere
with a guy who's mom is a teacher, so he knows bout my depression, cutting, and suicidal ideation


with goddess candles and scars on her arms
she rises again
my strongness

CATEGORY -- "Other" -- 2003
By: Theodora


dear jesus,

you would have hated all of this
i'm sorry
amazing, you were


p.s. CUNT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

CATEGORY -- "ode poem," 2004, awww, I am still sweetly attached to this poem, but why I attempted to sound like Yoda I don't know.

By: Theodora


I'm sitting in Gregg's room
Eating paper
and discussing Hinduism.
We went to the beach this morning.
Closest I've ever been to the lake.
It was fucking cold but everyone saw my white,
non-shaved legs. Hooray for Italian hair.

Transcending Transcendentalism,


By: Theodora

For You

I don't have a cigarette
and whoah!
I'm missed at East
smell like Italy stereotyped and menstruation.

The drunk lady at the
art opening was
screaming "fuck"
stole my boa
"been drinkin since noon.
she's really nice when she's not drunk." -- said the guy
who took one look at my VAGINA t-shirt and called me
he looked
with his yellow teeth
like he wanted to git with me or something.

I don't even smoke! Truly a case of romancing the "true artist, who must really smoke and drink all the time, right?"

By: Theodora

Genital Poems

Genital Poem I

1. waz talkin with
a computer nerd
vaginas/he syz, "we're men,
we can't say that word. it makes us uncomfortable./
we can say 'down there' and 'pussy/cunt', but never 'that word.'

[oh, poor baby]

2. it's abt reclaiming
what we got left.

Genital Poem 2
Ask me on a
giddy day,
and I'm all
for 'borrowing'
cunt for use as a
positive feminist adjective.
as in, 'wow, my poems are so cunty.
It rocked with female energy."

Cunt has a hell of a history and we need to shake up the boat.


By: Theodora Ranelli

A Letter


"It is pretty coherent." –Nikki

"Oh, that's too bad." –Ted

I feel so empty. Shivering.

The sun is shining. It's

warm and I want to

lie down in the not-yet-

green grass with my

arms around myself.

There was glass on the sidewalk

which I

stepped in without

noticing. After I heard the crunch

I thought about taking a broken piece

and carving my arm — reminding

myself that using random

objects found in the road

was for freshman year.

Now, if I do it at all,

I use something a

bit more clean.


But hey, the glass was brown.

And yesterday was National

"Stop the Bullshit Day"


By: Theodora

dear smart-assed highschoolers who think you know what you're talking about,

I'm sorry, but you suck. you're sweet, you smile a lot, i know

you like me . . . but

then i remember you treating me like

a curiosity

"the pin girl"

ms. political

saying you don't have time "for new friends."

maybe i'm angry because i can see you being unstable and confused.

always perfectly funny.

then i see myself being unstable and confused.

i remember that i can't just sit back like some

[blank]-year-olds and say, "damn, those kids!"

i'm still a part of this generation. but i feel like

shit around you. yeah, i feel like shit.



By: Theodora

To Whom It May Concern:

I have fallen into the acoustic guitar.

I'm a quirky grrl who does love, believe it or not.

I feel like I can impregnate the world with my fire tongue.

Other days, I'm more comfortable in the fetal position.

I want you to kiss me on the cheek so I can tell your story.

Do it. Now.

I am trying to heal my insides. It hurts.




By: Theodora


Hi, Sara,

There are different stages of my teenage poetry. The first stage, which included a few I sent last batch from 2001, could be summed up as the "I don't know who I am and no one understands me!" poems. From there, I morphed into "no one understands me because I am a radical hippie feminist lesbian and I deserve to do my Goddess rituals indoors. My oppressive Catholic parents are obviously crunching my freedom." From there, my person poetry turns in the nature of questioning the universe, as well as my own gender (I haven't gotten there yet, though, in these e-mails -- right now we're just on the first two stages.") I hope something in all this is useful for the site.

take care, theodora

yearning: poem after a bath

she cries on the bus today

lemon on her tongue

and the absence of your words in her pocket

"normally, I hate choral music. But the men up there were speaking to us, singing to us, not beating us up."

-Kathy, after seeing the Twin Cities Gay Men's Chorus

she can crank out lines

that mean nothing

but she wants you to find

something in the pieces

that define her

her soul on a silver platter

move in take care don't touch come close

careful, she's hurting/burning

don't hold her too tight


t let her go

"…those images of Black men touching eachother gently will stay with me forever."


CATEGORY -- "White Middle Class Feminist Hippie Oppression," or "More than Like" --2004

By: Theadora

Beethoven Watch Out: I Didn't Pay My Insurance

was a while
i knocked my head
getting awake
and now, i knock into
people instead
physical contact
invades personal space bubbles
maybe i would
do better with fiction
(although who's to say
this is true?)
quick step aside
i'm climbing your head

CATEGORY -- pointless rambling poems

By: Theodora

The Love Grams Poem

infatuation grams
hate bombs
clit notes
platonic love grams
happy international quirky-alone day
free love grams
gecko cards
whipped cream flower
it's no cherry
black roses. in blood.
it's only highschool, peoples
leik, omigod, i'm in love!
self-love power!
vibrator fairies
mass orgy letters
make lovegrams, not war
atomic puppy love
it comes with age gram
red rum

CATEGORY -- I WILL NEVER LOVE AGAIN -- 2005, Junior year, (official subcategory -- sssshhh, she thinks she has experience!)

By: Theodora


we're talking
like girls getting their arms sliced

CATEGORY -- OTHER -- 2005 -- Junior year -- another WTF, but I secretly love this one! :)

By: Theodora



we've talked about
asses and buttcheeks
going to first base/
i could corner you
in the gymnasium
(teatherball sucks)
those cheeks,
yup. you've got whithers like a horse.
and no, i'm not anorexic -- i'm just
building up strength
for the day we go
cruising on the bus.

CATEGORY -- OTHER -- 2005 -- Junior year -- this is really a WTF. I think it was written during a creative writing class, but I have no other memory of it.

By: Theodora



all I ask is that you take
me seriously.
Because I am capable of
thinking on my own.
And, like the rest of you,
I have a voice.
I might be able to tell
you something if you really listened.
Words are how we breathe.
So sometimes I might not be able to talk to you.
I might not be able to write sometimes because my
voice is only emerging.
I don't know who I am.
But could you please listen to the me that's being uncovered?

CATEGORY -- I AM ALONE AND NO ONE UNDERSTANDS MY PAIN, 2001 -- written in eighth grade. it was one of the first poems I ever wrote.

By: Theodora



bleeding when she told
me she didn't know what she was
yes/ and if I was open, she was
open -- from my nose, that is
in her car

CATEGORY -- more than like, 2004

By: Theodora

Holding Grass in Our Hands

Holding Grass in Our Hands

Having a pang attack for
Leaves of Grass is
only fun when
one is sitting in the
middle of what
turned Whitman

I can find
him and
we'll try
to remember
lines but we don't do
well when the boys are
hunting water bugs
and carving trees

By: Theodora
CATEGORY -- Other, but definitely "White Middle Class Hippie Feminist Oppression", 2004