For some, "feminism" is a pretty penny,

holding women as captive audiences.

For others, it's just a social theory,

a role played as a jennet.

But it's a 'sweet coltsfoot'

in the worldly garden,

a 'glue gun'

to stick apothegms to womanhood.

It's a big chunk of change

in the world's history book,

a day for women's 'statue,'

a 'blood clot' to the wounds of women.

It's the first bite

of the worldly 'cake' for women,

her conversion equation,

transforming delicate petals

into insentient leaves.

It's a 'blush' of womanhood

and a 'stain' of pestilence,

a 'potpourri' for a femi-centric castle,

an alchemy bursting reluctance

from the air.

It's a proliferating favor

to the walls of dense 'foliage,'

capturing femininity.

It’s no small joke fallen flat,

nor a mockery of 'anti-feminism'

fell asleep.

It's a decent menu

on the manly table,

not just a word,

but the lord of girlhood.

It's the light and bright

'mediterranean charm' of society,

a 'vapor pressure'

of womanhood’s tea

in the worldly kettle.