Who is she?
I am a nineteen-year-old woman,
I say woman because I’ve found that as a sex we are discredited too often.
I am a woman, along with all the younger and older.
I’ve never felt more sure of my womanhood than when I write my true authentic thoughts. When here and now, I am allowed to be.
I’m constantly making mistakes,
Defining the parts of myself that I am proud of, and recognizing those I wish to leave behind.
I must acknowledge I am imperfect because all women are imperfect in the ways men are, but we are judged very differently.
Mentally stirred, restless in my skin,
The beliefs that raised me on how I should be and my disposition have left me struggling to find who I am.
When my lover's mother asks me about my future children with her son, I look at her puzzled.
I’m unable to stomach the thought of children when I haven't seen the world,
What makes me happy?
What makes me sad?
What are my favorite foods?
What clothes do I feel pretty in?
I’m sensitive, unstable, and bursting with excitement to explore the world.
Why is she?
Can anyone explain why the woman is afraid of her own voice?
Were we shut out for too long?
I wish she’d speak so that I could know how she is like me or how she is unlike me,
I’d accept her for who she is because she is partly me.
I feel confined in how I should be, and I hope, even if it must be solely in the comfort of my own sex,
I can speak.
The woman doesn’t always say what she means, or feels.
The man is much more free,
She only knows freedom inside herself,
Sometimes.
Strange how we are the same creatures,
It’s time I be my own creature of pleasure.
I have found that it is difficult to talk when I want to in the presence of most men.
If I speak or even look at him a certain way, I’m flirtatious.
If I disagree, I’m a bitch.
If I agree, I’m a pick-me.
I’d rather write because if you find my poem distasteful, I’ll still be safe, you don’t know who I am.
In our world, a woman never knows how a man will react to her presence.
You may say not all men,
But violence against women has followed life.
What I ask from men is understanding, to stop seeing life as a discourse, but as a teaching moment that everyone can reflect on.
Women are different from men,
Biologically it cannot be denied,
But I fail to see the issue or inferiority of the other in such a statement.
Where the man is not, the woman is.
We see through the eyes of experience,
I watched my mother pick herself up and out of depression, working even when her body started to fail on her, from the light of day to the setting sun, She did so because she is a mother,
A (strong) woman.
Women are predetermined as fragile, but we are nothing of that sort.
Where a man will leave ruin, a woman will pick it up and build a new.
And yet she still tends to forget how beautiful she truly is.
The woman is often associated with nature, the delicate flower, but she is beyond any distinction,
She is purely a woman,
except perhaps she relates to nature in her endurance of man-made disaster.
I’m not here to blame the man, but has anything I’ve written been untrue?
I chose to let the stress leave me because I feel freed by these words.
I advise all women to continue writing from their hearts, and never feel ashamed for feeling what is felt, it's what humans do.
No one will ever understand you as you understand yourself,
always defend your beliefs,
you owe it to her.
Find her, and love her.
A poem about being a woman, my experience of womanhood. Internal and external imbalance is inside every woman. We are often not allowed to be all that we are, but then there is creation.