/lit/ - Literature

Please tell me things about my poetry. Bad things, good things, all of my friends are Science Majors and I'm going insane.

The Male

Human, human, standing there, ‘fore the mirror, cold and bare.
For us does he display a self-aware
Conception of his form, and then does bear
Up to his image outstretched fingertips
And touches nature to the water’s lips.
The male has learned by reading words of man
From whence does come his gentle body’s plan;
His head, invented by an ocean worm,
His spine, the genius of a piscine form,
His arms and legs and joints to let him crawl
Ashore, and skin to bag up his offal,
And fur to keep him warm above the ground,
And poise to let him run the world around.
His hands to grip the tree, the tool, the fire;
His mind to make them dare and to aspire
But at what point did he evolve the soul?
The spirit to make art, to grasp the whole?
He catalogues his gentle body’s plan.
At what point does the male become the man?


The Female

Little girl, you may be. Dost thou know you may be?
You may be any creature you desire,
So feel your gentle skin, and know your fire.
An energy for life, and hope for change;
A sword to save the good and slay the strange.
That fire of your heart will burn the way
Through history with dazzling display.
The pain that twists the wicked and the wounds
They have inflicted, both succumb to you.
The solemn memories of horrors past
Are housed in honour, like the bones and casts
That tell of ages tread before the dawn,
When evil and monstrosity were law.
The love you give yourself, give to the world.
The wind will blow again, your sails unfurled
Will billow and balloon, and you will find
Your toenails scrape the ceiling of the sky.
You look across the world you helped create,
And still regret the self you gave away.