When you are a minority in this country, be it a woman, or of a different race, gender identification, or a non-prevalent religion, you are already a second class citizen. You are simply tolerated and you are either outright told you are not wanted at times or its whispered in your ear at the most unexpected (or expected) moments in your life.
You often will just nod to yourself inside and say, Yeah, that’s right, I almost forgot I wasn’t different from you. How silly of me to have forgotten. Thank you for reminding me I don’t really belong.
A woman or man may become shamed, fearful, angry. Cry tears of sadness, frustration and/or indignation. They make drink, smoke, shoot up, live life to the excess all to assuage their disgust, their inadequacies, or the perpetual fight they think they may not be able to overcome for something they simply were born into. Nothing more. A chromosome here, a chromosome there, all amounting to being defined, boxed and put in your place. Categorized.
Becoming a category, a subject matter, a thing, provides disconnection for the majority. So when the times comes to fight the status quo it is simply met with indifference, ridicule, generalities, skepticism, and even outright suspicion.
What does the majority think we fight for? Why does a woman call out a man in power when he threatens her with her career if she won’t sleep with him? Why does a black man kneel when the anthem plays because he simply wants to make sure that flag really seems HIM in equal measure when it waves in the wind. Why does a man marrying another man, or woman marrying another woman rankle the majority so, when love is love is love?
Majority is the key.
Remember, Majority is the key.
Stop thinking of yourself as not the majority. Don’t acquiesce. Don’t bow your head.
Being a minority is only a state of mind you put yourself in.
So simply cry out from the heart. And say enough.
Philip Wardlow 2017
I want a girl who knows me well
I want a girl with heels that click
And eyes that dance like fireflies
Who’s passionate, thorough, and true
She’s playing with her hair
She’s giving me a smile
As her laughter fills my ears
as I bend her over the chair.
I want a girl with a short skirt and a long jacket.
I want a girl who stays up late
I want a girl with corruptible possibilities
Who’ll go skinny dipping with me on a first date.
And a voice with dark menace that invites me in.
I want a girl with delicious resolve
At Barnes and Nobles we will meet periodically
We’ll start to kiss over fantasy and the occasional
She wants a car that will get her there at times
She’s changing her name
From Miss to Mistress
She’s trading her life for something better not found in life
I want a girl with a short skirt and a long jacket
You can only look at her and get tongue tied
as your mind
That girl over there in that short skirt
wearing those black
thigh highs and garters, along
with sharp heels that could most definitely hurt.
Oh, and when she smiles,
A storm walking, dream of a nightmare on the prowl.
she exudes, the magicalicious
way she crosses the room.
It’s not fair I tell you.
No simple mortal stands a chance.
For they are all in thrall.
Pupils dilated to drink her in.
Lips wetted just in case of a kiss
Let’s not forget,
her charmtrap of a stare,
dark eyes that scream you fucking
better be aware
Because I’m here,
“I’m always on when I’m out, and you
look pretty cute,”
she almost seems to whisper
just to you.
Even though you are nowhere near her in
She’s got a confoundous amount of play
in what that grin directed
“Hey, I spy with my little eye,
a guy I might let take me for a little drive tonight.
does he even have the key, let alone the gas
to get me there where I need to be?”
I jingle my keys as the
bojangle in me wants to bodangle
with you in so many delicious
I take your hand and lead you
home, climb the stairs,
and close the door.
The stars are forgotten
as the man in the moon seeks
to peek in my room to learn a
thing or two of what
I am about to do to you and
by Philip Wardlow 2017
Her world is a private
a myriad complex thing
pains that run deep
like a slice with
a wicked knife
into the fruit
of a well worn life
that drips it juices
onto the floor
where others tread
its sticky mess.
Yet she floats.
Always she floats,
above and apart
Wrapped in a delightful
And I, can simply only
wonder when, she will
ask me to join her.
by Philip Wardlow 2017
wrapped in misery.
You are already dead,
so why should you feel pain?
Pain is your purgatory
little girl, a grand gift
from scales that can never
be balanced in your favor.
Haunted eyes they may be,
but I see defiance, strength,
lingering deep, always
ready to rise to the surface.
Never did death look so beautiful
A perfection in form chiseled
from stone beaten up and torn
down by the elements.
You wear your cloak well,
dark and tear stained, wrapped
tight around a body that
still flies free.
You are my beautiful dead girl.
with cold hands clenching tight around
a warm heart
that beats just for you.
by Philip Wardlow
Landscapes of You
As I rise at dawn
and look out upon this landscape
It’s got nothing on you babe.
The mountains can’t touch your heights which I climb
In the morning light and the fertile valley
below is where I’ll go to set up my campfire
and have a weeny roast every night.
Let me fall down hard against your snowy soft skin and make
snow angels with my tongue as I go deep in.
The rivers and streams that meander around me can’t
get any wetter than your bed as I lie at your shore .
Maybe I’ll take a swim in your deep lake and paddle
down to the waterfall where I hear it’s a gusher.
The pinks and reds that I bring out in your cheeks and lips
as you gyrate those hips below
stir the four winds to blow
me away off this wind swept peak
that I cling to with barely a fingertip.
I’ve packed lots of rations, trail mix, water and
peanut butter cups to keep my energy up.
My hike is not over by far, because I’ve got many trails to cover.
I can’t leave any one spot untouched or ignored,
The beauty of this mysterious place I call
paradise must be explored.
The smell of clover and dandelions pervade my senses
as I drink your sweet scent in.
The nearness of you is nature in its most erotic essence
bottled in the pores of
By Philip Wardlow
A woman will always want a hug more than a man
but a man will always need a hug more than a woman.
Neither knows why.
She will want his presence close; his arms and his heart.
In that very moment as he embraces,
he will be her harbor for all the days
that he holds her.
He will need her light and the one
she sees in him when he cannot.
Through that embrace, her light will envelop
him and strengthen him for all his days
by Philip Wardlow 2016