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Cat calling

I wrote this poem a couple of months ago and I’d like to share it with you. Drawn from real life events and real nightmares.

The temperature is dropping,
The fruit is ripe and falling,
So is it all to end?
The wolf whistles and cat calling?

We thought it was the heat,
Summer created a haze,
A haze around their brains,
That was too strong to beat.

Alas it will remain,
When not so maidenly maidens,
have donned their hefty ski jackets,
To combat the icy rain.

Their lives aren’t full!
They cannot help it,
So they must depict,
The motion of an arse,
Or the fullness of a tit.

Quickly they drive away,
Not proud of their creation,
Their lexical sets are limited
And they search for other recreation.

What of the girl who walks with purpose?
She doesn’t have time for bruised egos!
It is not her job to make them feel male,
Or like some sort of sexual heroes.

“What could I possibly say,
To silence them and walk away?
Could I relate to their human sides,
Or use them as my spirit guides? ”

Quick as a flash she pours out her heart,
Revealing a dream of disturbing sights,
That filled her head like abstract art,
Confusing and lasting for nights.

After singing them the ghost’s song,
Of bloody nipples and curdled milk,
Surprisingly she sees they’ve left
And attracts no more of their ilk.

“I’m too strange for them now,”
She contentedly ponders,
“They do not like the imagery
And the route a slumbering female wanders.”

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