To be a Woman

Standard

To be a woman,
you must have a vagina
which doesn’t belong to you
but to your man;
for his sexual pleasure.

To be a woman,
you should be submissive
and learn to be quiet
when your man speaks.
Even if you have an opinion,
it is best you keep it to yourself,
let him have the final and only say;
that’s the only way you can earn
his respect.
Else you’d be seen as rebellious;
men don’t like rebellious women,
such women remain single
or get divorced.

To be a woman,
you must be a good cook
cos men love good food.
You have to love the kitchen
for your man’s sake
if you want to keep him.
As a woman you’re a chef by default
and you must learn to master
the recipe of your man’s favorite meal.

To be a woman,
you must be domestic
when it comes to house chores
such as cleaning, doing the dishes,
laundry, babysitting etc.
cos your job is to take care of the home
while the man’s is to take care of the bills.

To be a woman,
you should learn not to dream too big
lest you intimidate the man
and sometimes it might be required of you
to give up on your dreams
so you can focus solely on helping your man realise his.
You’re a helpmeet created to assist the man;
this should be your utmost aspiration as a woman,
which is to be the neck to your man’s head.

To be a wo-man,
you have to be wooed by a man
and must kowtow to his every whims
at the expense of your being.

Photo Credit: http://www.dreamstime.com

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Fragile

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I’m fragile
like an eggshell.
I wish I was stronger,
and tougher
like a snail’s shell,
which can withstand anything
that comes its way.
I tell them softly
that I’m falling apart,
burdened by the weights
life gravitates on me
which is becoming unbearable
and already creating cracks
on my fine shell.
they tell me to man up,
don’t be a pussy!
life isn’t a walk in the park
nor a bed of roses,
that what I’m going through
is nothing compared
to what they have been through.
so I shut up instead
and mourn silently.
cos I know I’m not really
as strong as the world
expects me to be.
I really wish I was,
If only wishes were horses.
but who am I
to question the gods
who moulded me into an eggshell
instead of a snail’s shell?
faced with the harsh realities
of life. alone.
my tragedy shall hatch like an egg,
quietly, in the incubator of dusk.