sans titreUne dernière danse ensembleNos pieds chauds qui bougentsur les pierres froides en dessousde ma robema robe qui flottecomme un oiseau qui voledix mille pieds en haut du terrePeut-on envoler là un dernier fois?Je pense que ouiavec la danse si belle on pourrait la faireMais maintenant l'océan m'appelleElle crit mon nom à haute voix et je dois la suivre, ma belleJe m'envais;une dernière séparation.
The Beauty IndustryWhen one thinks of the word "beauty", a particular image arises in the average person's head; a tall, slim woman with an easy-on-the-eyes-sort of face. This figure stands as a sort of idol, to which every woman must conform. But the concept of beauty is simply about politics. Our society is kept in a synchronic state of fear of the "enemy"—that being a healthy body image—and obedience of the "leader"—this ideal of "true beauty". We are kept in a constant mode of consumption as we try and buy into a truly unattainable example. And just as politicians use propaganda and scare-tactics to push their agendas, the beauty industry constantly pushes
Essay on Prozac NationIn life, pleasant, untainted moments will always exist. In the same respect, painful, ruinous times can be just as common. However, for some, the latter can become the norm. Distress and torment fall like a dark curtain on the good, and the brain becomes enveloped in a smoke that inhibits normal feelings from being felt. And this sadness often seems to come despite outside factors that, under normal circumstances, should induce a feeling of accomplishment or wholeness. These are symptoms of depression, "de•pres•sion n. Emotional dejection greater and more prolonged than that warranted by any objective reason." (Urdang 358) In every country, i
ExitI make my exitBorn again from my womb of paranoiaI make no apologiesThough I may be fashionably lateCuz I took a lookinto that magnified mirror;You know when you standfar enough awayyou becomejilted, inverted, the nemesis;a stalactite version of what you though you knewSo I packed up my pridein my old suitcasecovered in peeling stickersfrom places I've built walls aroundto contain the soldiers of unrestAnd silentlymade my exit.
Sta.sh
