Objects for men to adore, at the age of only four.
Shelves littered with glitz and glam, pink oven and a barbie-filled pram.
Pucker up and slap it on, fourteen and your virginity's gone.
Look perfect or face their wrath; teens with talons are tracking your path.
All you see is flaw after flaw, pretty ugly at twenty-four.
Peer pressure- the game is on, Running out of time- there's a man to be won.
Can't get a job: "Risk of baby." Can't get a man: "Not a lady."
Thirty-four and treated like a child, bossy, nags or meek and mild?
Ninety-four: almost a century's passed, twenty in the twenties you'd think we were equal at last.
Still you see it every single day, however hard we try it just won't go away.
YOU ARE READING
Polygon
PoésieA compilation of poems from the everyday; delivered by a short girl who just can't stand it. Enjoy. Or don't. Feel free to strike up a conversation if there's something you want to discuss. I update once a week so add to your library to keep updated...
