In our attempts to heal and rectify what wrongs have been inflicted upon us, as well as those we inflict on the self, we have lost much of who we are.
For it is not with the waters of compassion that we have chosen to feed the seed of change within and all around us, instead it is with monsoons and tidal waves of rage, defiance and vengeance. Who we are is not a reflection of the capitalist, imperialist or tribalist status quo.
We are not pawns for the culture of cash (consumerism) and credit. We are not the manifestation of ideals pushed unto us by some foreign power and oppressors, and we are not the result of one group’s actions towards us.
We are creations, first and foremost, of the creator. All of us.
The girls and women of the world are not slaves to the whims of man. They are not instruments which we, as males, ought to pleasure ourselves with. They are not to be shackled, literally and figuratively, to the concept of perpetual victim, weakling, feminist or dominatrix.
They are, in their truest light, queens. Each and every one of them. No exceptions.
The daughters, sisters, mothers, friends, grandmothers and goddesses. All of them, leave for none, are queens.
It is not for any man or woman to delight in the subjection or oppression of any woman. It is the responsibility of all who inhabit this world to remove the false ideas of woman that have been perpetuated by external and internal forces.
I can find no single individual or event to be blamed for the obvious deterioration of the rock (woman), and the decay of the flower (girl-child), that is her virtue, integrity, pride and soul.
In that same breath, without shifting the blame to another, we must all be held accountable. You, me, him, her. Everyone.
The woman who believes herself to be smaller or greater than any other holds blame. She who belittles others in order to shine is a vacuum, not a light. She devours the light of others, and through that one act becomes a monster unto herself and others.
The woman who cowers under pressure of others holds blame. She victimises herself more than any other person, man or woman ever can. Shrinking in the face of adversity fixes nothing. It is much like a scab left to fester. The scar gives of a stench that attracts those who prey on the helpless and weak.
ah, woman.
Woman.
sing me between the lines of your verses
plot me through the pages of your book.
body like a song.
Voice like the colour yellow.
The stanza in the poetry of my blues.
And I already told you
she’s way too mellow
for soul,
so she lives it.
strums it with her lips
plucks it.
pounds it with her hips
Have you seen
how she walks it.
ah, woman.
--
Namaste
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