Perhaps if my glass was always half full, I’d be able to raise it in a solemn toast To the man that runs the country some Thousand miles over the air; because I can Sit in bars, and drink my spirits to oblivion - If only they had the same privilege as I.
A short poem about ICE and their detainment centres on the border with Mexico. To the giant I saw, dancing the halls Your painted cape reaching, metal full of thoughts You don’t know how to whistle. So you pester the boy and the girl and the calls That those men make for food. To... Continue Reading →
I don’t know how to be a feminist. Because the meaning has been twisted. It’s a bad thing now, isn’t it? It means I hate men It means I don’t know what I’m talking about. I don’t know what a feminist is, Because I’ve been told countless times the gender pay gap doesn’t exist,... Continue Reading →