Little girl picks up the chalk,
Writes her heart,
Draws her mind,
Cries it all away
Before they can see.
When you speak more with your poems than people these days, you know your mind is really more one with itself than another, and will be for a while. It has its beauty and is ultimately tragic, yet holds value and precious moments within itself. Leaving this place is difficult, but necessary when you near the end.
I can't tell if I'm growing up too fast
or if I'm complaining about seeing
the harshness of the world
right when I am meant to see it.
My grandparents gave me a holiday card.
My grandfather wrote in it, "stay young as long as possible so we can watch you grow for a little longer."
In the card, they put a $20 bill for me to keep.
How ironic that they tell me to stay young then hand me the social construct of deconstruction; of internal combustion.
Part of being young is not understanding social constructs, like money, class, privilege.
Please don't hand me money if you want me to stay the way I am.
I truly do want to stay young, though. I want to stay oblivious.
It's hard when you hand me the world's struggle in the form of paper and tell me to stay happier for longer so you may have the privilege of watching my joy and be delighted for it.
Meet me in the middle of a blank page in our book. Meet me where our story is not yet written.
The previous pages are already colored by permanent pigment and etched in stone. They are not erasable. You cannot burn them or rid yourself of them without destroying me. They are forever imprinted in my memory. All we can do is remember and forgive the mistakes we have made.
So, please, meet me in the middle of this blank page where the words are not yet written, and we can write our own story's course.
I continuously cry over a life that I almost missed, and every time I do, I am glad I held on for who I am and what I have done today.
Please don't die.
"You can only be smaller
than your ego is large."
That's what they all meant
when they said: "be modest."
Please see my page for part two.
I am so bored with my own writing at this point.
I just realized: I am in mourning. I am mourning the loss of my life right now.
A trans man posted that he was mourning the loss of the boyhood that he never had.
I am mourning the loss of a gender-free childhood I never had. I am mourning that I have to cover who I am. I mourn what I could have but don’t. I mourn.
I have lost so much time. For almost a year I have known I am genderqueer, but have kept silent at home. I am mourning what I could have had if the world had been easier; if the world had been kinder, gentler to me. If only the world could show love.
I feel my identity is unloved in my home. I feel it is highly politicized, dehumanized, unreal, not palpable in the air which we all breathe at the dinner table together.
I AM REAL I shout! See me for I am so real. Hear and feel me for my skin is true, my mind is true; I am real and I sit here with you.
I am mourning the loss of a childhood I never had. I mourn the loss of kindness I never had.
Please be kind. I promise I will always be kind.
In my arms, my dear child, you are not a political piece, you are not a distant figure - distant yet still held so closely in my arms and cradled like a child. There will be none of that. You are simply one whom I love, and I am yours in return.
Please love me for who I am. I am only human, I can only take so much.
I don't want to be your figure, I want to be your child. There is such a big difference.
Grasp the ground.
Hug the Earth.
Protect the history that
Has sunk through
These layers of sand.
The waves of the ocean roll in.
She rages in her centers.
Storming in her own lands at the
Center of the sea,
The middle of the water.
There is every color within the waves.
Violet seeps through her Earth as
Yellow reflects from the golden sun,
Glinting on the surface,
Just hitting the corner of your eye,
Allowing the hues to
Flood your brain.
She washes over you and the sand,
Reminding you she's alive
And that you are alive with her.
Hug the Earth.
Grasp the ground.
that limiting emotional expression
On my way to a far off village
I met a young woman,
With scars in her eyes and hands so old
Holding a precious clay vase.
She lived in a far away land of
Desert-like knowledge, and
Within that land were seven stories
Of three weeping children,
Each singing for each other's love
And the eternal peace of their mother.
Sitting on my bed waiting for the depression to hit because I know the mania is wearing off
Sleep is calling.
She weaves your name lightly and tugs your strings like a puppet until you fall softly into bed.
She pulls you in gentle directions like the waves of an ocean falling right into place where they are meant to be.
My child, you will be fine. Earth is calling your name. She wants you to rest so you may awaken tomorrow when the sun rises and make beauty of her soil that I never did.
Sometimes it’s easier to close your eyes even when there is light to guide you.
The thing about art is your brain has to be clear enough for you to spin your pain into fabric that is processable by the public. Sometimes cobwebs crowd us too much to be able to turn our ideas into anything.
I want to breathe,
break Earth open,
seize it’s captivators that hold it
trapped in an encapsulating spider’s web.
We are stuck in the muck and we can’t get out!
Once you crack Earth open,
steam will rise like roses
reborn from its center.
The core is shaking,
vibrating my mind inside
the skull that aches.
A time bomb usually
runs out of seconds.
When will release come?
Feel the decay, don’t fuel it.
Nature corrodes everything,
that’s part of why I’m screaming
because the time when it is reborn
seems hidden from my reach.
A guitar sits behind glass and unused guitar picks sigh. Dusty piano keys do everything they can to not just pop out of the piano and keel over to die right there on the tile floor. I speak in only the minor key now, love. Gloom trickles from the sky into my hands. I’m standing here, in the living room, tossing it around in the empty air like a madman.
Your opinion shouldn't be more important than my reality.
A small young man
hides his face in his palms.
You sit next to him on the sidewalk.
He falls into your lap crying,
right there in your fingers.
He died doing what he needed
in your embrace.
And there is nothing left
Suddenly your mind is flooding, leaving the floor of your brain sopping wet and useless.
Drenched like a sponge that was unprepared for the tsunami you never thought would come.
Sometimes you can
be so wrapped up
in writing things down in
a hurriedly explanation
that you forget
to breathe within the moment.
It's alright to pause.
It's okay to forget your pencil
and listen to the stars when
they ask you to slow down.
So, I paused.
And I heard wonderful things.
I discovered the sky is beautiful tonight.
More so that I could ever tell you through words.
So, please... breathe.
I want you to view me in a light
that you are not wise enough to see.
Your eyes have not aged enough
to identify the particular hues I consist of.
I am a spectrum of majestic experiences.
I attempt to recognize the fullness of humans,
beautiful and difficult, for all that they are.
You could never do this as I do.
The difference is stunningly stark.
A rainbow on one side, yet
darkness on the other.
Your irises are too monochromic-
not enough color in them.
I feel we gain colors as we
experience; as we learn.
You simply lack in that area, my dear.
I wish you didn’t.
You left your words on my lips.
I’ve heard this song before.
You kissed the ink, then you kissed me and left a stain on my cheek. It was like spilling tea on paper, leaving it more crinkly and stiff than before.
You felt everything through that ink. You brought life to it, nurturing the words you wrote. You tugged me into them and dragged my brain on the floor until I was bleeding and wanted to leave. You are a whole different person now.
Poets live two lives. One is in their heads and the other is outside of them.
Poets write their mistakes down in sorrow. They give you all of their love so you don’t make the same mistakes they did.
They love you deeply; a kind of love they often can’t afford themselves.
You kiss the ink as it sinks into a crisp notebook. You stitched me into your mind and bound me to your thoughts. You run circles around your own brain, sewing up loose ends in every corner, frantically organizing your mind.
You kissed the ink, then kissed me, and left a stain on my lips. It dried like a tomato in the sun.
Only the tears of a poet can leave such a stain.
Mother nature is the truest comedian of all time.
She saw my soul before I entered life on Earth,
And she laughed in my face as I was
On my way to your house today.
When I write, my room rains. It's a thunderstorm of dust, rocks, mud, and water pounding into the paper. Thousands of raindrops burst from the ceiling and plummet to the floor, the desk - every surface there is. They all fall, and by the end of it, my skin is soaked in water and my hair is dripping with words. Every drop is a thought that dances in my mind.
A true thunderstorm passes when I write in my room.
Nurtured to be a woman
They say you should be modest.
"Hide yourself," they tell you,
"Cover your brain."
My mind is bursting at the seams.
I am no genius, that is certain.
Yet, I've carefully stepped behind
Others' shadowy minds
Enough to know it is
A waste of time.
So, I create my own shadow.
She is my own and only mine.
Please see my page for part one.
If I fall, will you catch and hold me tightly?
If I fall with nowhere to land and cannot spread my wings, can you take a moment to soften the world's edges and make space for me in your arms?
When you fall, I will hold you tightly with nothing but love.
When you fall, I will be there waiting to give you my hand and make space for you to heal when there is hardly any left.
When we stumble together, years from now, tracing the heartbeats and tracks of others so far ahead of us, I will guide you through the oceans and hold your heart closely to my own so you may never feel alone.
I hope you would do the same.
Why should I have to prove myself to you?
I told you who I am and you still don't believe me.
I told you everything you asked, yet you still can't perceive me.
I tried my hardest to explain, my hardest to remain
Calm in front of you, to compensate for the truth.
The fact of the matter is that you still don't get it
Because straight people don't see things that aren't to their benefit.
I could shoot you down with my intelligent wit,
Describe to you my complex social fit,
But there's nothing that I could truly admit
To get you to care about me.
You will never understand who I am.
I am one who is neither a woman nor man.
I run from a box into which people cram
Themselves for no **** reason.
That box, to me, feels like treason.
If you only could open your ears,
If I could help you to pause all your fears,
You could start to dim all those dark years
Where I cried over frustration;
Hanging myself from contemplation
Over whether you would still love me the same;
Whether I would still be there for you to love.
That terror has leaked into my mind.
That terror sits steeped within my eye.
It's permanently written in big and black ink
Etched up and down my spine.
Love me for who I am.
Don't push me away because you can't understand.
Please, don't push me away because you can't understand.
It's a flatline existence.
You're a tiny particle in a world full of matter.
Your identity is stuck and fighting, but it's unclear whether it has enough strength to make it through the storm tonight.
What will happen to this particle in front of me?
Because there are two options, and
you know what they are:
Lose, or fight.
Fight, or lose.
She hurts sometimes, but she's fixable.
She just needs a friend.
Ze struggles to understand the world,
ponders it every day.
One can see hir wrapping hir head
around the universe.
She's a tired person,
running circles around hirself,
aiming for and missing the target
Until she eventually can't help but
fall asleep, where the answers
to her questions somehow
float farther and farther away
from hir tireless, resting body.
I will never let you see me unedited.
I always want to put makeup on before anybody sees me.
I never let anybody read my unedited poetry.
I am terrified you will see who I am and dislike it.
I will make sure to package myself neatly into a box,
Perfectly ready for shipping and taped up nicely
Until I suffocate from the plastic wrapping.
I won't ever stop.
Sugar is sweet,
but it stings the back of your throat
if you eat too much of it.
I'll give you the wind. I shall capture it in my arms for safekeeping and hand you the melting sun for the day you call upon them for force and strength.
My dear, this world has been crafted by us for ourselves. I handed you every tool and you carved the dripping stars. I cut out paper poppies and planted them into boiling soil with great care and honesty. We left the planet for our own adventure, came back to view its growth and creatures. This is our world, borrowed by humans and birds. They simply hold this land for now.
I know they will return it to us some day, when they are all gone and we are the only ones left. Then, we shall walk the bare soil and wait for it to heal; wait for it to grow again.
My dear, that would be beautiful to experience with you.
Whether or not I’m alive to see it,
The truth will always survive and surface.
The truth about what I believe,
As long as I keep writing my history,
The reader will be able to know. The truth
About my thoughts
And what I believe.
The truth about others’ thoughts
And why they did what they did to those people.
Why they crushed them, beat them,
Hurt them and their children.
Why they pushed them down
Instead of helping them rise; rising with them.
Standing once society has battered and bled your legs
Takes guidance unless you walk a painful, ****** path.
But it’s hard when others have deserted your kind.
They are hurting us slowly; intentionally.
They are killing us.
Do you know why I love you? I love you because you see beauty when it is hidden. You recognize it because you seek it. I can tell that you love deeply and you are artistic down to your bones. Others could have gorgeous art of any form placed in front of them and they would be blind to it. But you could see the beauty in anything because that's who you are.
I heard of a girl.
Her pen was her sword,
Crusading the world.
She bled from her wounds
Crying from afar,
Not knowing why.
She wrote to gain silence
Somewhere in the city.
Somewhere in a city,
Her mind wrestled more loudly
Than the force of anger.
A butterfly prevented from soaring?
It was something she couldn't name.
It bound her wrists.
She could never breathe there.
She could never breathe.
So she rose from her seat and tried to leave,
But the floor beneath her started to fall,
And her heart was pounding, then the air was gone,
And there is no one else there but the pen
so she bleeds.
She bleeds onto the pages,
And through her finger tips,
And lets the words cover her
like a blanket of unsafety.
Would she ever have the heart to escape?
Earth paused to hear her voice.
It all stopped moving, and
The girl kissed the end.
It kissed her back as her sword fell to silence.
It was soft and easy.
But it was also final, and
She was not ready.
It hurt, coming so close.
She's still hurting.
But she's still there.
She continues to crusade
The pages, and the world.
This clock, hanging above me and ticking away, just reminds me how much time I wasted putting chains around my emotions and sealing a lock on them. I wasted all of those seconds, that finitely tick by, throwing away the **** key to that lock so that nobody, including me, could find it now.
Have you ever thought of how the sky bleeds colors?
When the birds fly by, their feathers drop beautiful pigments into the clouds which cascade through rain drops into the city, and that is how I see color.
They fly everywhere, of course; my birds have cried every color there is. They change as my emotions shift and squirm like a worm. Never has there been only one color falling from my sky.
Soar, will you?
My colors are sore, and so are the birds which release them.
Release them, will you?
Pick my body up off the floor like chopsticks lifting pasta and sit me in a chair. Glue the limbs that fell off back on (maybe accidentally put some pieces back in the wrong place) so I can walk again without toppling over like a stack of books balancing on a pea. I'm talking to myself too much.
I'll unscrew all of my bones from each other so it hurts less the next time you start shoving me around like I don't matter.
Her world revolves in such a different circle from mine.
The key to life is healing and creating. It's harder to do the hard things, for creating is more difficult than destroying. But most times the hard things bring better things.
That's what my mother wanted me to know.
"I'm just looking for a home in somebody's arms" the person said. "I've been looking for it for so long, I don't know if I'll ever find it. There are no arms left for me in this world, and I don't know if I truly could trust anyone to be my home," they continued.
"You tell me you look for safety," I say, "but you find safety in uncertainty. That is the home you have built for yourself, and that is the home you will stay in until you decide you are ready to leave."
We are validation seeking suckers
Who are too blinded by fog
To see that we must validate
I feel like I am burying my own body beneath dirt and pebbles and my hands are split and bleeding from sharp edges of the rocks but I must keep my head above the ground because once it is buried I will never return. It would be so much easier to just fall asleep under the layers of ground that will protect me from the predators who come to hurt me when when I am tired and asleep at night but I must stay awake no matter what. I must stay awake.
Corrode my honesty and
Jab my heart out with a sharp, split piece of glass.
Stick it deep in my muscles and tissue and bones.
Hurt me so much that you don't want to cry anymore.
Darling you can't help who you are by breaking me;
I'm not your piñata.
I desperately want to fix people I relate to. I need fixing because I want to fix others.
I find myself mending my pieces together again, pulling a needle and thread through my flesh to make it last longer. I take pieces of myself that have been lost and glue them right back on in the wrong places. Glue only sticks for so long and thread eventually snaps.
I try to hide these stitches I’ve sewn. I’ve spent years covering them with thick layers of glossy paint. I use rich pigments of prussian blue, shiny yellow ochre, deep crimson, and lilac to distract you.
And it works.
Look at what I drowned myself in. Watch me pour the colors over my honest, weathered skin; over my nose and mouth where I breathe and speak. Don't look at me and the path I've detonated. Look at my mask instead.
I’ve been shattered before. With only the delicate touch of another human, I exploded. Sharp splinters of glass burst from within me and flew miles away when it happened. I need to fix myself before I can fix others, otherwise I’ll fix them broken like me.
But how can you expect me to pick up every shattered piece? I would much rather stay broken than collect myself and feel whole. Thanks, though.
Your eyes alone speak oceans of words.
The currents and waves of your heart smash upon rocks in the middle of the ocean yet during all that you are here with me. You have chosen to be with me.
I see the sky in you, and within my own eyes, I hope you see a road leading toward the stars, far from Earth, shining brighter than the light of a child.
You hold the power to freeze oceans; they are under your command. I watch as you slow the crashing waves so I may discover who you really are in their movement.
Imagine the light of a sunrise refracting on your beating heart - a tune intertwined with confused notes yet a clear message of trust infused in your music.
We are both finding our paths. They each wind in twisty turny directions but the magnetic pull keeps us close.
My dear, we hold each other’s hands through it all, and I promise to never let go.
Your love terrifies me.
The second you touch me, through words or with hands,
I solidify like a marble muse placed on a pedestal
To forever hold its pose.
A muse scared of being judged by its audience.
I'm afraid of your love.
I think I know that it is so powerful it could help me, and
I have grown too comfortable in my sadness.
Sadness and sequestration, they are my comfort zone.
That is why you are scary.
I get so tense every time.
Every time you offer yourself or see me for who I am,
Each muscle in my body turns to glass and I
Breathe in sharply before holding my lungs.
Why are you still here?
Why haven’t you gone?
Knives are falling around me and you
Hold a shield above my body.
Can I trust you? You trust me.
Can I trust you with my mind, though?
Because if I let you in and you let me down,
I will be shattered.
In your palm I could safely be held,
But I’m slippery and I know it.
Partially and insecurely I sit like
A crumpled piece of paper hidden under layers of skin.
I crouch in the fetal position to protect from any external attack,
But I can’t hide from myself.
My love, you are an unstoppable force.
The power of your big and beautiful heart carries you.
I only wish I were whole enough to embrace you.
Hold the rhythm in your palm.
Share the mountains we build instead of
Focusing on the rhythm we killed.
These shards of shattered glass dig deeper in our skin
And we can’t climb out of the ditch we have dug
So we may as well hold each other.
The world won’t stop spinning.
The sun won’t cease to rise and set.
There is only so much time left for us in this world.
Please, please bare with me.
I don’t want us to die.
I don’t want us to die.
I wish we could have lived while we were still alive
Instead of dying while our hearts still beat.
Our hearts still beat.
Our hearts still beat?
They will never be aligned but imagine if they were.
Share the mountains of rock-solid and
Dusty dry emotion we put upon each other
Instead of focusing on the rhythm that we could have shared
But shot down instead.
This is my pain with you.
This is how much it hurts.
God I wish it didn’t hurt.