Poems.

De CharlieChitty

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A collection of poetry to engage. Mais

Poem #23
Pigeon Feeder.
Fuck the Festival.
Quintuple-Ten Shadows Of A Silvery Colour.
Saddle Up.
Voting.
Nightflight.
LovePoemTen™
Lou Bega's Pileup.
The Story So Far.
Dating.
You.
It's Too Fucking Hot.
Forest.
This is it. Burn the rest.
Go Back To Your Own Country.
Creating Nice Things.
Haunted Indian Burial Ground.
If you're going to drink, let someone else write you home.
Transatlantic Midnight Ocean.
Creativity.
Obituary for Telephone Boxes.
Monument Couplet.
What is but cannot Be.
Gustav Holst.
The Imagination Line.
Ownership.
Sorry.
Obe to my Bic.
The Moon and his Weeds.
David's Poem.
Motivation for My Friends.
Primordial
Charity.
Banking on Hypocrisy.
Treat Yourself.
On The Prince.
Run Those Jewels.
Divide and Conquer.
Flowers Anon.
Earth Poem.
A Funeral and My Awful Haircut.
Twenty Five Years
Make it Up.
I Don't Give A Flack.
Acocks Green to Solihull. Legal Disclaimer: Never Happened.
Britain Is

International Woman's Day. (There's A Woman Somewhere.)

113 1 0
De CharlieChitty

Struck out the "e" and added an "a" and I see there won't be glee spread across your face. Just confusion at my obtrusion so I will explain to the sane:

There's a woman somewhere, there's no doubt of that, in Saudi Arabia, there's no doubt of that, she cannot go out without a man. If she doesn't she's publically abused, and it's no ruse that the courts will insist on her beaten more than the abuser, betrayer, persecutor.

There's a woman somewhere, there's no doubt of that, in Vatican City, there's no doubt of that, she loves her God and prays every day, but when it comes to the pope vote, she won't have a say. So a vote could be entered by even Ben Affleck, but not from a woman, despite that she's Catholic.

There's a woman somewhere, there's no doubt of that, in Northern Morocco, there's no doubt of that, she  gets attacked by a man (in the worst way she can,) and is not only forced to carry, but forced to marry. Only that didn't happen, because she's here no longer. 

She killed herself.

There was a woman somewhere, but now she is gone. But still there are women who each day live on. Not women as such, but a group of "a woman." Stories of the human spirit, nothing finer. This day shouldn't be about breasts and vaginas.

To tie this all up and to parcel it neatly, sweetly think of the woman who has nothing completely.

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