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
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
The hand moves on the clock
as the little girl skips down the block.
Sun up to sun down.
She laughs. and laughs, and laughs,
and sings in her heart.
Until one day the ground comes to meet
her head on.
Now, her trust in gravity is suddenly gone.
Yet, she still skips, but ever so hesitantly.
Just ever so, knowing the cost in her
lack of caution.
Her heart still sings
as she joins in a game
of Double Dutch.
The rope flies as her feet take flight.
But the other girls in their turning
are not nice,
slow the speed of the spin
throwing off the girls rhythm
So once again, gravity brings
blood on a sidewalk and
scraped raw knees,
and a small wall.
On and on her days come and go,
the clock continually ticking
with the gravity of the Universe
Always there; spinning,
as this little girl still
continues to skip
and jump rope.
With that same song
deep within her heart
humming ever so slowly,
just ever so.
by Philip Wardlow 2016
Therapists say the core of us, from the defining moments of our youth, make up a great part of how we see ours lives throughout our whole existence through and into our growing “adulthood” until the day we die.
We all walk a path, and that path we walk sprung up to meet us whether we know it or not. Some have found that magical path and place among the trees where they know peace and a solid foundation under their feet as they tread a world still alien.
Most are not so fortunate whether you think they are or not.
Some of us walk it in seeming surety, with one foot right after the other; having all the answers to life at our lips and the tips of fingertips based on what came before. Those types outright scoff at times at those who don’t know all the answers or have it all together. They can truly be arrogant bastards; ridiculing the “underclassmen” saying they will never catch up.
((Secretly)) they know they do not know everything; no matter what they say. I have to imagine, that need in itself, to have to be sure all the time; it must drive them mad when their world falls apart at not knowing the answers when push comes to shove in their lives.
I truly do feel sorry for some of them. For I do believe that type of arrogance is needed in the world to get things done. Else many of us would be sitting on our hands saying woe is me and nothing else. But these types must pay the price at times when the chaos finds them in their own mind. For no one must see them weak you know.
Others of us walk in a meandering, stumbling, almost drunken course down a path where our footing is anything but sure. Always needing that tree to lean on, or that bush off the road to vomit up our urges and failings behind.
Yet, still they walk, for their is a determination in their lives that drives their legs into motion. They are not comatose. They are not in a vegetative state. They breath, they exhale, and they bring in life and let it out in small amounts. They evolve in their own course; through the volitions of some inner or external force which they cannot place, but it drives them, much like the arrogant ones above, that have already embraced a reality and be damned to anyone who stand in their way.
What else can they do in life but to try? And besides, they can’t look weak ; not to the arrogant ones that depend on them to prop them up from time to time when they speak.
Finally, there is that brow beaten soul. That lower than low. The one that goes home to sleep and sleep and dream and dream until the day has disappeared and night encapsulates and settles the debate of who has won that day, life or him or her.
They will not choose to try again the next day nor the next. Woe are they, to not even attempt. For that voice that once shouted has been muffled and thrown into a cage of the finest steel made. Never to be let out, never to be fed or watered, but instead to let whither and die in a lonely cage bound with a strength they gave away.
All because they believed they reached some end. Some place in their life they could not rectify, or redeem. Never realizing life is impartial, life goes on. So go on, life says go on, and don’t be afraid to look weak and go on.
Be that person you lied to yourself about that you told you could not be. This is a lesson for all three of you who walk the path you think you should.
See…the path before you. Just let yourself simply really truly see.
by Philip Wardlow 2016
In The End~
“Show me a little more sin,” he said.
You knew the ways of men
so you smiled,
giving him a wicked grin,
as you lifted your skirt,
and listed all the
things in your head you
would take from him
in the end.
by Philp Wardlow 2016
You give him a grin
and forget it all when he
grabs a breast.
He smiles that same stellar smile
that trapped you so long
You sweat it all out through sexual labors
all the moments meandering
constant in the frontal lobe of your brain that aches
to cut him loose and send him downstream
to go cascading off a cliff.
Yet you play the martyr to his Mussolini,
tied up and tortured in the town square,
while all the passerby’s look the other way.
Doesn’t become you.
Defiance should rule.
But yet you grin all over again
when he grabs your breast.