Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

At ten at night a fair lady releases her flowing hair And opens her window to let in fresh air Not knowing that a fairy has come in with the breeze Who will describe all that he senses and sees The fairy, hid behind a bucket of salts Watches her as she exposes her faults The chipped red paint on the nail of her toe Revolts the poor fairy, but he refuses to go For she starts to unzip her speckled blue top And her two heaving breasts break out and drop Never a more putrid sight did he see Than nipples the size of mulberry trees She then removes her lashes, her eyebrows, her lips Then, yawning, into her bed she sleepily slips The fairy, wanting to take a closer look at the doll Flutters up to her ear and begins to crawl He travels right into her big, waxy ear And discovers great galaxies there In her head she has worlds so vast and sublime That make him forget the odiousness of her slime She has novels and poetry stored to the roof of her skull Mathematics, biology, a...

Here is a thing that you may not know about me. I hate my face. And not in a casual sort of way that is modest and attention-seeking. The self-hate for my face is real. Amid all my insecurities, from some of my unpleasant personality traits to my guilt of not working out enough (whoops!), my face, unfortunately (and quite shallowly) takes first place. Perhaps writing down this insecurity, taming it, and confining it to a series of paragraphs will help me see how senseless it is to fret so much about something, that, frankly, is irrelevant to my worth as a person, and how my obsessive insecurity might, ironically, make me a more irritable and spiteful person instead. Ever since the age of twelve, I have had acne. You know, the usual teenager "T-zone" acne on the forehead, cheeks, chin, and occasional nose and neck. Except maybe a tad worse than the "usual." That means, for the past nine years of my life, I have woken up every single day being self-conscious. I don...

Born into a world that is ruled by the few An oligarchy disguised as a democracy (We're accustomed to believing it is not so Because we are cattle, and "the man" Can slice our necks open at any time) I'll never be a man, for it is God's will I'll have the "wo-" stuck in front of it Like an uninvited guest that refuses to leave Even when the dessert dishes are put away I'll forever be destined to be wo-man A syntactical slip, that we are hu-man When we were small we were equal Until that day in the change room In the sixth grade, when Sadie began To make fun of you for having fat legs Then, like a lollipop version of Eve, We looked down at ourselves and realized That we were wo-men and our bodies became Something that needed to be kept secret Chastity belts digging into our bellies The sunburnt truckers with leering stares The frightening reminders: never walk Home alone at night and bring hair spray De...