Poetry

Where I bare my lyrical soul...

This is a short narrative poem based on the Met Gala. It is also my attempt at being comedic, in comparison to a lot of my work that is simply sad. I dedicate this poem to all the philanthropic celebrities who have attended the Met Gala.

This piece is about my personal disinterest in motherhood, especially being surrounded by 'baby fever.' As we grow up and motherhood becomes more and more likely, it seems to morph into 'closer and closer', almost inevitable.

In my mind, poetry should be a manifestation of your feelings. And most feelings aren't pretty; they're raw and often shameful. Especially for women, who are asked to be both highly attentive to men, and also wildly independent.

As women, the beauty standards we are held to are detrimental. As feminists, the beauty standards we are held to are irrelevant. More accurately, should be irrelevant. But none of us are strangers to the cruel art of comparison. We begin to see ourselves hideously ordinary, and the other as ethereal.