"Rape Poem To End All Rape Poems" by Rutgers University [lyrics]

"Rape Poem To End All Rape Poems" by Rutgers University

We were I his room, after the party, 
lights dim, 
a few drinks in 
and then everything was warm and smoothed over, 
then this moment quickly punctured by supposedly sweet whispers that felt like barbed wire. 
Trust me. 
Oh come on. 
Don't you love me. 
His hands pushed me back. 

WARNING: it's that time again, time for another rape poem. 

The audience sighs, just back on their seats. 

Oh boy. 

You say, these bitches are about to go on. 

On about the rape and pain. 

And no. I said no. He didn't listen. 

And you ask why another rape poem. 

Didn't I just hear like three of these? 

Yeah. You probably did. 

I'm surprised in a country where someone is sexually assaulted every two minutes. 

But surprisingly these people get shit for telling their stories. 

They are all lumped into one category. 

"Rape poems". 

As if trauma is a trope, pianation a cleishay, 

all while you sit back 

and ask why so many damn rape poems. 

We wouldn't need so many damn rape poems if America had listened the first time! 

These poems are our prayers to beat the fucking odds in this country. 

Of apple  pie and roofies , 

We wouldn't need so many damn rape poems if our bodies were OURS alone! 

We wouldn't need so many damn rape poems if everyone knew what NO means. 

We wouldn't need so many damn rape poems if Budweiser stopped selling our bodies stretched across a six pack. 

And maybe we wouldn't need to write so many damn rape poems 

if everyone would listen to this one! 

But it seems to us that this lessons have yet to be learned. 

Don't tell me she was sober enough to make a decision. 

Don't tell me she was asking for it. 

Don't tell me to pity him for making him face consequences. 

Do you complain about another rape poem? 

As is this all part of a culture? 

Rape poems will continue. 

Until I can wear whatever the heck I want without being called a slut.  

Until I can trust my drink with somebody when I need to use the bathroom. 

Until I can walk alone on the dark streets and no be a cat call. 

Whose you daddy? 

Get back over here! 

Damn look at that ass! 

Until I can wear heels without being asked who I'm trying to impress. 

Until my coin speaks louder than my outfit. 

Until I'm not expected to carry pepper spray on my key chain. 

Until No really means NO! 

Until rape means crime!  

Until woman means human! 

The rape poems will continue until there is no damn material left. 

An open letter to God from an atheist/ Lindsey Michelle [lyrics]

     Open the eyes of my heart Lord 

I used to reach up my small hands on Sunday service searched no for God

     Open the eyes of my heart 

Thinking that my small hands must just need to try harder stretch further to feel him 

I would force my fingers out the dry skin between that would begin to crack 

but still I was singing 

     I want to see you 

I was searching for God and clenching my eyes

I was crying while singing over and over again 

     I want to see you 

Trying to press my heart into his hands and touch him 

and all of it while wondering what was wrong with my hands 

I went to Christian camp for five summers searching for God 

and not once did he leave with me. 

Try to be with me when I packed up my bags and went home.

I sit there singing bible songs around the campfire trying so hard to grab a whole bread 

like hell was frustration and empty spaces 

but I kept trying because every summer that I went to camp 

I swore that I can almost taste it 

like this sweet tip of the tongue sensation 

so I closed my eyes and chased it but time after time it faded. 

I pray to a God that I never found for patients. 

How has every other person here managed to find this 

why am I the misfit in this situation 

when I'm trying 

I'm trying so hard. 

I'm crying 

since I was seven I've been singing 

     Open the eyes of my heart lord 

The top of my fingertips without any answer. 

Why haven't he responded to me. 

Answering machine after answering machine 

I'm beginning to think that maybe he doesn't give a shit. 

God you are the almighty hypocrite. 

Your own book promised 

seek and you shall find me. 

Knock and the door will be open 

Dear god 

if you are there then take your on the waiting list off the shelf and turn that page, 

that no takes every time that I got lost looking for you. 

Every time that my hands found none reaching for you. 

Can you even tell me how many talents are net to the phrase 

she stood on your doorstep shivering. 

Do you remember that my knuckles were bloodying from knocking so long?

Love in a time of desperation/ John Ratz [lyrics]

The body can decide to stop living in stages 
the slow death is the body whispering a quiet no no no 
until some vital part refuses to keep working 
some important piece of you does not consent to being alive anymore. 

The way I understand my sister's disease is that it attacks everything at once. 

I could write a list of symptoms but these days 

it looks like something turning off all of the lights inside her.

She's 23 and cannot see. 

She's 23 and cannot walk, cannot think. 

She's 23 and already looks like an abandoned building. 

So much of her has already decided to stop working. 

We live in a time of miracles. 

Medicine is the science of forcing your body to live wether it wants to or not. 

It is forcing you the body to bow down to you the mind. 

Because the brain is the only organ is afraid of dying. 

But I told you my sister's disease attacks everything including the delicate network of neurons and synapses that makes her a person and the slow collapse of her body losing its ability to function 

My big sister can't even decide wether living is worth it anymore. 

Once she lost a lot of weight, 

her jaw refused to work right. 

More food ended up down the front of her shirt that in her mouth. 

Her body weather hunched itself into a claw and for the first time in our lives there was less of her than there was of me.

My parents took her to the hospital and she came home a week later with a tube in her stomach. 

She eats from a bag now. 

No swallowing involve, 

just a slow mechanical work the pump forcing paste directly into her stomach 

we force feed her 

and I have to believe that this is an act of love in a time of desperation. 

There was no discussion of allowing this to be the end. 

My mother says the GTube was the first time it felt like betraying my sister's body in order to keep her alive 

and Christine didn't even get a saying in it. 

Sometimes I imagine she stopped eating on purpose. 

When she could speak she said the seizures felt like God  

stabbing a knife into her brain and twisting 

and I have to wonder if anyone ever really wants to be rescue back from an agony like that. 

Sometimes I love her so much I wish we could let her die. 

Someday another important part of my sister's body will stop functioning. 

I imagine a thousand nightmares for some terrible accident claims my parents 

and I hold her life in my hands and there's no way I would let her die. 

But I wonder how far I would go to force her to live 

and wether that is love or the stubborn pride insisting that as long as 

I can force her heart to keep beating I'll never have to say goodbye. 

14 Lines From Love Letters Or Suicide Notes/ 14 lineas de cartas de amor o notas suicidas POR DOC LUBEN [lyrics]

1. Don’t freak out.

2. We both know this has been coming for a long time.

3. I have been staying awake at nights, wondering if I should tell you.

4. I bought the kind of crackers you like. They are in the hall cupboard.

5. Now that we have watched all the episodes of True Blood, I do not know what else to do next.

6. I have just been too afraid for too long.

7. This is the kind of thing where waiting for the time to be right would just mean waiting forever; it’s the kind of thing no one else can help you decide.

8. I came home on Thursday and found all of the chairs in the house stacked in a pile in the center of my kitchen; I don’t know how long they have been like that, but it must have been me that did it. It is the kind of thing a ghost might do, to prove to the living he is still there. I am haunting my own apartment.

9. My grandmother was still alive when I was five years old and she told me to check if the iron was hot enough yet, so I pressed my hand against it, and it was red and screaming for hours. Twenty five years later she would still sometimes apologize, in the middle of conversations, I feel so bad about making you touch the iron, she would say, as though it had just happened. I cannot imagine how we forgive ourselves for all of the things we didn’t say until it was too late. But how else do you tell if something is hot but to touch it?

10. I imagine my furniture in your apartment.  

11. I wonder how many likes it will get on facebook.

12. My dad always used to tell the same joke, but I can’t remember the punch line.

13. I was eight years old and it took three weeks (three eight year old weeks— imagine) to gather everything I needed to be Batman. Rope, boomerangs, a mardi gras mask with the beads cut off. I couldn’t find a cave near my house, so I buried them all in a bundle under the ivy. Four years after,

I tried to find that spot again.

          The ivy grew too fast.

              I searched in so many spots

it seemed impossible I had missed any.

But I never found it.

How can something be there

       and then just not be there?

         How do we forgive ourselves

             for all the things we did not become?

14. I was never bold enough to buy bright green sheets. I wanted them, but  always thought they were too brash, even with no one but me to see them. I bought a set yesterday and put them on the bed. I knew that you would like them. 

When love arrives. Cuando el amor llega.

WHEN LOVE ARRIVES

I knew exactly what Love looked like in 7th grade

Even though I hadn’t met Love yet, if Love had wandered into my home room I would have recognized him at first glance – Love wore a hemp necklace.
I would have recognized her at first glance – Love wore a tight French braid.
Love played acoustic guitar, and knew all my favorite Beatles’ songs.
Love wasn’t afraid to ride the bus with me.
And I knew I just must be searching the wrong class room, just must be checking the wrong hallway.
She was there, I was sure of it.
If only I could find him.

But when Love finally showed up – she had a bull cut!
He wore the same clothes everyday for a week.
Love hated the bus.
Love didn’t know anything about the Beatles.

Instead, every time I tried to kiss Love, our teeth got in the way!!!

Love became the reason I lied to my parents. I’m going to Ben’s house.
Love had terrible rhythm on the dance floor but made sure we never miss a slow song.
Love waited by the phone because she knew if her father picked up that’d be “Hello”… “Hh..” “Hello?” “Hh…” “I guess I’d hang up.”

And Love grew.

Stretched like a trampoline.

Love changed.
Love disappeared, slowly, like baby teeth.
Loosing parts of me I thought I needed.

Love vanished.
Like an amateur magician everyone could see the trapdoor but me.
Like a flat tire – there were other places I had planned on going.
But my plan didn’t matter.

Love stayed away for years.
And when Love finally reappeared, I barely recognized him.

Love smells different now, had darker eyes.
A broader back, Love came with freckles that I didn’t recognize.
New birth mark – a softer voice.
Now there were new sleeping patterns.
New favorite books.
Love had songs that reminded him of someone else.
Songs Love didn’t like to listen to, so did I.

But we found a park bench that fit us perfectly.
We found jokes that make us laugh.
And now Love makes me fresh homemade chocolate chip cookies.
(But Love will probably finish most of them for a midnight snack.)

Love looks great in lingerie but still likes to wear her retainer.
Love is a terrible driver, but a great navigator.
Love knows where she’s going, it just might take her two hours longer than she planned. :<
Love is messier now.
Love is simple.
Love uses the word boobs in front of my parents!
Love chews too loud.
Love leaves the cap off the toothpaste.
Love uses a smiley face in her text messages.
And turns out… Love shits. :]

But Love also cries;
And Love will tell you “You are beautiful”, and mean it.
Over and over again.

“You are beautiful.”

When you first wake up, “You are beautiful.”When you’ve just been crying, “You are beautiful.”When you don’t wanna hear it, “You are beautiful.”When you don’t believe it, “You are beautiful.”When nobody else will tell you, “You are beautiful.”Love still thinks, “You are beautiful.”But Love is not perfect and will sometimes forget.
When you need to hear it most, “You are beautiful.”

Do not forget this.
Love is not who you were expecting.
Love is not what you can predict.
Maybe Love is in New York City already asleep.
You are in California, Australia, wide awake.
Maybe Love is always in the wrong time-zone.Maybe Love is not ready for you.
Maybe you are not ready for Love.

Maybe Love just isn’t the marrying type.
Maybe the next time you see Love is 20 years after the divorce.
Love looks older now but just as beautiful as you remember.
Maybe Love is only there for a month.
Maybe Love is there for every firework. Every birthday party. Every hospital visit.
Maybe Love stays. Maybe Love can’t. Maybe Love shouldn’t.

Love arrives exactly when Love is supposed to and Love leaves exactly when Love must.
When Love arrives, say, “Welcome. Make yourself comfortable.”If Love leaves, ask her to leave the door open behind her.
Turn off the music. Listen to the quiet.
Whisper, “Thank you for stopping by.”

-Sarah Kay & Phil Kaye

10 respuestas a la frase "Sé un hombre/No seas marica". GUANTE

TEN RESPONSES TO THE PHRASE “MAN UP”

1. Fuck you.

2. If you want to question my masculinity, like a schoolyard circle of curses, like a swordfight with lightsaber erections, save your breath. Because contrary to what you may believe, not every problem can be solved by “growing a pair.” You can’t arm-wrestle your way out of chemical depression. The CEO of the company that just laid you off does not care how much you bench. And I promise, there is no lite beer in the universe full-bodied enough to make you love yourself.

3. Man up? Oh that’s that new superhero, right? Mild-mannered supplement salesman Mark Manstrong says the magic words “MAN UP,” and then transforms into THE FIVE O’CLOCK SHADOW, the massively-muscled, deep-voiced, leather-duster-wearing super-man who defends the world from, I don’t know, feelings.

4. Of course. Why fight to remove our chains, when we can simply compare their lengths? Why step outside the box, when the box has these bad-ass flame decals on it? We men are cigarettes: dangerous, and poisonous, and stupid.

5. You ever notice how nobody ever says “woman up?” They just imply it. Because women and the women's movement figured out a long time ago that being directly ordered around by commercials, magazines and music is dehumanizing. When will men figure that out? 

6. The phrase “Man Up” suggests that competence and perseverance are uniquely masculine traits. That women—not to mention any man who doesn’t eat steak, drive a pickup truck, have lots of sex with women—are nothing more than background characters, comic relief, props. More than anything, though, it suggests that to be yourself—whether you, wear skinny jeans, listen to Lady Gaga, rock a little eyeliner, drink some other brand of light beer, or write poetry—will cost you.

7. How many boys have to kill themselves before this country acknowledges the problem? How many women have to be assaulted? How many trans people have to be murdered? We teach boys how to wear the skin of a man, but we also teach them how to raise that skin like a flag and draw blood for it.
8. Boy babies get blue socks. Girl babies get pink socks. What about purple? What about orange, yellow, chartreuse, cerulean, black, tie-dyed, buffalo plaid, rainbow…

9. I want to be free, to express myself. Man up. I want to have meaningful, emotional relationships with my brothers. Man up. I want to be weak sometimes. Man up. I want to be strong in a way that isn’t about physical power or dominance. Man up. I want to talk to my son about something other than sports. Man up. I want to be who I am. Man up.

10. No.

10 respuestas a la frase "No seas marica"/ "Sé un hombre"

1. Vete a la mierda

2. Si quieres cuestionar mi masculinidad, como un círculo de maldiciones en un patio de escuela, como una pelea de sables de luz hechos de erecciones, ahórrate el aliento. Porque contrario a lo que quizá creas, no todos los problemas se resuelven con "tener bolas". No puedes salir de la depresión con grandes músculos. Al director de la empresa de la que acabas de ser despedido no le importa cuantas pesas puedes cargar. Y te prometo que no hay suficiente cerveza en el universo para hacer que te ames a ti mismo. 

3. ¿Sé un hombre? Oh, eso es el nuevo superhéroe ¿no? El afable vendedor de suplementos alimenticios Marcos Machofuerte dice las palabras mágicas "sé un hombre", y se transforma en el hombre con la barba de tres días, los músculos super grandes, la voz ronca y profunda, vistiendo un la chaqueta de cuero, un super hombre que defiende al mundo de, no se, ¿sentimientos?

4. Claro. ¿Por qué luchar para remover nuestras cadenas cuando simplemente podemos comparararlas? ¿Por qué pararnos fuera de la caja, cuando la caja tiene esas estupendas calcomanias de flamas? Nosotros los hombres somos como cigarrillos: peligrosos, venenosos y estúpidos. 

5. ¿Alguna vez has notado como las mujeres no dicen "Sé una mujer"? Lo tienen implícito. Porque las mujeres y el movimiento feminista se dieron cuenta hace mucho que recibir ordenes directas de la publicidad, las revistas y la música es deshumanizante. ¿Cuándo nos daremos cuenta los hombres de ello?

6. La frase "no seas marica" sugiere que el ser competitivo y perseverante solo son características masculinas. Que las mujeres -sin olvidar mencionar a todos los hombres que no comen filetes, tienen una camioneta y se acuestan con muchas mujeres- no son más que personajes secundarios, recursos cómicos, utileria. Más que nada, sugiere que ser tu mismo -sea que uses pantalones pegados, o escuches a Lady Gaga, o uses un poco de delineador, o tomes una marca diferente de cerveza, o escribas poesía- te va a costar. 

7. ¿Cuántos chicos se tiene que suicidar antes de que este país reconozca el problema? ¿Cuántas mujeres tiene que ser atacadas? ¿Cuántas personas transgenero tienen que ser asesinadas? Les enseñamos a los chicos a usar la piel de hombre, pero también les enseñamos como izar esa piel como una bandera y extraer sangre con ella. 

8. Los bebés hombre tienen calcetines azules, las bebés mujeres tienen calcetines rosas. ¿Qué hay del púrpura? ¿Qué hay del naranja, el amarillo, el verde pálido, cerúleo, negro, teñido anudado, a cuadros, arco iris...? 

9. Quiero ser libre, expresarme. Sé un hombre. Quiero tener relaciones significativas y emocionales con mis hermanos. No seas marica. Quiero ser débil a veces. Sé un hombre. Quiero ser fuerte, de una manera que no sea el poder físico o la dominancia. No seas marica. Quiero hablar con mi hijo de otra cosa que no sean deportes. Sé un hombre. Quiero ser yo mismo. No seas marica. 
10. No



La traducción es mía. compartan esto con todo el mundo. La letras son lo único que puedo hacer ahora. #HeForShe

Mayo xx

Uncontrolable feelings

Sometimes I just have this uncontrolable feeling. And I just wanna cry. Because I feel so lonely. And it sucks. I'm sitting on the teachers desk. And there's like a big empty circle around me. And no one gets closer. And I know that they don't mean it. Bus still. What can I do? Study. Pretend I'm playing with the iPod. Pretend I'm very concentrated. And maybe I won't look so pathetic. Most of time I feel like and observer and that's ok because sometimes that's what you have to do. But you can't avoid to want to participate on life. And stop being just an outsider.