To All the Little Girls

May 4, 2011
By raneemo BRONZE, Moraga, California
raneemo BRONZE, Moraga, California
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
"I'm willing to admit that I may not always be right, but I am never wrong" - Samuel Goldwyn

I speak and I speak but yet I am not heard.
I speak and I speak but yet I am not heard.
I speak and I speak but yet I am not heard.
I speak and I speak but yet I am not heard.
I speak and I speak but yet I am not heard.
Do you hear that?
It’s the sound of people screaming.
It’s the sound of people screaming out to those who are not hearing.
I didn’t mean to shout but there’s some s*** to shout about.
The people take one step before they’re told to get out
Like misbehaving children they are sent to timeout.
Into their corners they go, staring at the wall.
The big ones hear the phone ring but they don’t take the call.
“I’m sorry, you have reached the start of your downfall.”
So Imma tell you a story, about a little girl
A little girl who grew up and learned to save the world
She was loved while inside the womb, loved ‘til she was born
Loved til she was born as a girl, and then looked at with scorn.

“Mother, Mother,” she’s tugging at her dress.
She’s doing f***ing handstands but her mother’s not impressed.
She brings home a report card with only outstanding things,
‘Cause average don’t mean nothing, it don’t turn peasants into kings.
But Mom, don’t you see? I’m number one in the class!
But mom don’t see nothing, even that doesn’t pass.
So the girl works and she works, she busts her heart out;
She’s fillin’ up her brain with all the s*** she’s reading about.
She gets into college, she graduates with honors;
But still Mom does not see the worth of another f***ing daughter.
Her son is out there smoking hash, and snorting up cocaine.
It’s the sight of him failing but she don’t dare complain.
‘Cause he’s got a f***ing penis , it don’t matter if he drinks,
It don’t matter if he does heroin, or of cigarettes he stinks.
“He’s gonna be a doctor, that’s what he’ll be someday.”
He’s gonna need a doctor if he don’t start cleaning up his ways.
But Mom don’t see that, ‘cause he’s her baby boy,
She’ll sit and dote on him, give him his favorite toys.
Her daughter gets a job, Mother gets old,
Daughter pays the bills so she won’t be in the cold.
Daughter cooks her dinner, yet it’s her son’s picture she holds.
But Girl doesn’t mind, she’s gonna work hard,
But waitressing don’t make much, still no money on her card.
Just wait a couple years, you’ll see what she can do.
She’ll fight for human rights, you see, from here to Kathmandu.
She’ll help the people stand up, she’ll help them find a voice;
She’ll work until she’s worn out, till the people have their choice.
Mom whines, “You work too hard, you don’t take care of me.”
But Girl will keep on going, won’t take less than world wide peace.
And on her 60th birthday, you’ll never guess what she got:
The f***ing Nobel Peace Prize, while her bro’s still smoking pot.
She goes home to show her mother, to show her what she’s done,
“That’s fine,” Mom replied, “I can see that you’ve won,
But you still didn’t cure cancer, or get the pain out of my buns!”

The author's comments:
This poem is dedicated to all the little girls in the world. They don't get enough credit.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

Parkland Book

Parkland Speaks

Smith Summer