A woman in stripes,
Imprisoned for her beauty,
like an animal in a cage, a fish out of water.
Trapped between worlds all because she
is a daughter.
Born with no say, forced to live on, she stares back blankly at those who look on.
An anomaly highly sought.
Expected to be untouched,
Because being that beautiful turns you
into a prize,
A prize
Beautiful enough to be frozen in time.
Frozen in time
You, a visual sublime,
Undoubtedly unhappy, with this torture that we call time.
Others, allowed to stop
and to stare,
to judge,
and to glare.
At a piece of art, you, the art.
When, was this decided fair?
When, was this decided fair?
Watched, as if
Made to please
Somehow always expected with ease
As if you, not a mind of your own,
a woman of your own.
A fate decided long ago.
By those who disregarded what was rare.
What was rare was your beautiful skin and dark eyes.
Bringing light into these dull and oh so boring lives.
Displayed as art.
Yet treated apart
of a larger problem
Of women being considered art.
We are no different than the woman in stripes.
Imprisoned for beauty, posting for likes
Submitting to social norms
For what we were made to believe was right.
Because being that beautiful, turns you into a prize.
A prize for prying eyes and twisted minds.
Considered art, without compromise.
We are no different than the woman in stripes.
YOU ARE READING
A Woman in Stripes
PoetryFor this poem, an Ekphrastic, I write about a painting by Mark Rothko, Untitled (seated woman in striped blouse), 1933/1934. I wrote this poem with the concept of a woman being trapped within a painting, left for others to look at and judge. I relat...
