men are from mars.

men are delicate creatures. most have little self worth, and are not as emotionally enraged as women are. of men i have seen in my life, it hurts to see that a handpicked few are mention worthy.

girls are like flowers. they persevere through civilizations, and are reminisced in poems. women die in between pages of books, an old lover's gift.

men are nothing like that. they know little of femininity and what power it holds. for some inexplicable reason, they admire the lack thereof. foolish, i would say. 

the desire in his eyes

devoid of understanding

i feel scared

i realise he does not think like i do

for men are from mars

too close to the sun

icarus, i warn you son.

i warn you.

do not venture in forests you know nothing of.

the concept of a girl growing fond of a boy is a sort of epistolary. it never happens in a day. it happens over a period of days, months, years. perhaps that is why the heart takes it personally.

for a little girl, love is sort of like writing a story. so, the little things are vital. the hand gestures, the way he horizontally nods his head when he understands something (a lot like saying no when you mean yes), how he looks sideways at her when she says something, how he sometimes doesnt look up because he thinks he knows a lot, how he dismisses what she says, how he makes a joke out of her reasons, how he pretends to be caring, how she never knows.
sometimes it is hard to throw away a piece of bad writing. because it has a few words that fit perfectly there. it would never fit anywhere else as beautifully it has there.

sometimes men are hungry. 

hungry men are the worst. especially ones who are starved.

starved men scare me.

women are rarely starved. they know how to complete themselves( even with drawings on their palms)

men are like deer hunters. i have never really taken a liking to hunting. some deer hunters dont hunt for meat. they simply hurt for satisfaction. for validation. the pain of a wounded deer, is music that tends their monster.

they dont stop. they go on, and on and on. because i do not stop until its mine. i do not.

my father once told me, an artist knows when to stop.

men are horrible artists.

women are from venus

they sleep in flowerbeds

their tears water the soil

their blood feeds the earth

their child tends the plants.

women are from venus

a planet in decay.

it is easier to fool men who think they are close to the sun. it is easier to swallow their worth. it is easier in a man-made world. it is easier when you look silenced. it is easier to leave.

as a woman i have not been taught so. my mother taught me to battle my pain the way flowers battle a hurricane.

and women know pain in a way men will never understand.