The world is a warzone,

and the battle is to be the best.

Women stand in battle array,

weapons nowhere around.

The opposing side stands tall and firm,

they spit upon the women.

Those warriors are words,

and their goal is to kill.

They want the blood of guilt,

they want the tears of shame.

The words are made of fire,

scorching girls, helpless to the burning.

Misogyny, rules, and double standards,

stereotypes, expectations, and ridicule.

They deserve happiness, at the least contentness,

but all they feel is pain.

There's but one way to end this war,

it's to stop the shots being fired.

It's causing destruction, death, and harm,

it's course must be changed.

Some simply wait until the fire is burnt out,

they say it's the only way.

But it is the job of all to strip the camoflauge;

it is the job of all to put down the weapons;

it is the job of all to instill the words of kindess;

it is the job of all to make peace; 

it is the job of all to eliminate the guilt and the shame;

it is the job of all to heal the wounds of the women in the warzone.