SPG (29/10/1987 / Solihull, England)

The First Lady Of Fiction

She’s betwixt and bound by bars of written line,
Forever inevitably dubbed: divine.
Destined to be studied and read for evermore,
Her life in words; damned for an eternal encore.
To be kidnapped and taken and taken again,
Without even so much as a voice to complain
And to wait, unread for several hundred rhymes,
Whilst readers are caught up in her hero’s tough times.
Now our maiden sits with virtue and grace,
While the dead dance around in this dark place.
Here he comes, right on time in his best suit,
And surprise surprise, there with him his loot.
He plucks yet again that same old fucking tune,
Her captors are written to weep, and she: to swoon.
With hard hearts softened by gentle melody,
She is released, so that his she may be.
“Come now darling, ” says her shining knight, “Let us go.”
But here is where things get interesting: she says, “No.”
Sick of pandering to feminine ideals,
Our lady decides to say how she feels.
Her captors, her man, they both stare blankly:
This girl is not aloud to speak frankly,
She’s a character, who has lost the plot.
But this is her one chance, her only shot
To make a difference, and not just for herself,
But for women everywhere, all put on the shelf.
For the maidens, the mothers, the virgins, the whores
For the wife of the man; who he claims he adores.
Women, by your men you are not defined.
Girls, to your story, you are not confined.
Write your own book; decide how it should end.
Do whatever you want; just don’t pretend.
This was her decision. An example to all,
This is our heroine; ready to take the fall,
To give up her life, and spend forever in hell
The first fictional lady to ever rebel.
And though life in Hades seems a large price to pay,
You should have seen her smile as her ex sailed away!

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Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

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