Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Peyton James Feb 26
I am the middle child,
Though I have no siblings
To speak of.

Growing up a heathen among lambs,
I emerged from the blessed pool
A member of the cult of liberated women.
Out of my own distorted sense of sexuality,
I arrived with a label that designated me
With the right to love all -
She, her, him, they.
So why is it then, that I am still unclean?

My creator told me once that
I came off the assembly line
With a crack in my chassis.
See, I have this switch embedded
In the deep recesses of my mind,
That can allow me to only appreciate
The aesthetic of sharp lines and flat planes;
But then, I sink too deep into the scent
Of azalea, and I salivate at the thought
Of soft curves, running my tongue
Along plump flesh, and Oh!
I lost my admission to heterosexuality.

I am the cellophane blanketing
Every celebration of liberty and pride.
Marching along the same sacred ground,
My ancestors rioted for the right
To be visible, to be sanctioned a people;
And yet, my boyfriend’s arm around
My waist is the burden that I haul.
I scrutinize the overwhelming list
Of binding entrance rules,
Only to find myself drowning
In waves of haughty rebels
That dictate I’m not “gay enough to ride” -
I lost my way to the left side of the spectrum.

I peer into the static-covered looking glass,
Only to watch myself dissolve.
Piper, Catherine, Frank, or Queen Sophie Anne
Are not me. They are poorly illustrated
Cartoons of people like me.
I am not promiscuous, confused, and blood-lusting,
Nor am I the forgettable adjutant in your
Breath-taking! ****! Highly marketable YA novel.
I am the middle child, and I demand more.
This poem is dedicated to all of my bi, pan, and trans brethren that have made their home the middle of the sexuality spectrum. We are all middle children and we are all beautiful humans.
Peyton James Feb 2019
Instead of a wedding ring,
Give me a collar
With a name tag
That states
Who this *****
Belongs to.
I'm not the biggest fan of weddings and all the other ******* that they include. Don't know if you can tell?
Peyton James Feb 2019
From agony fell I, to listless dreams,
Forsaken moments, bleeding memories,
A forgotten web, pulling at the seams,
The burnt out star from Heaven’s treasuries.
Remembering the span of wings in flight,
The depth and breadth of oceans underneath,
Awakens sickly thoughts of human might,
With pins and glass to keep me from the heath.
The glittering of stars, I’ll never see,
I’m blinded, shackled, prisoner for life,
Impaled to wood, “This butterfly was free!”
The epitaph to nature’s bitter strife.
        And yet, by heaven, I think my charms rare.
        My beauty encased, nothing can compare.
I think a lot about pinned butterflies.
Peyton James Oct 2018
Not remembered
Set ablaze
For a small taste,
Steeped brew,
And edible grain

Feel sorry about
The messy fellow -
A tool
Rushed
And restoration

The tardy arriver
Roe versus Wade
A Greek deity
Approached
And gobbled up

Clear the blackboard
It’s out of style:
Intentions
And the Christmas doorway decoration
In blue
This is an experimental quick write where I used only clues from the crossword puzzle in my local newspaper. Enjoy!
Peyton James Sep 2018
This is my city.
It’s swing pulse radiates from my earnest core,
As the alcoholic rain weeps from my pores,
And my thunderous mind is set ablaze by the same flame
That I hold, rolled between shaky fingers:
Callused, chipped and bitten.

But, I am from the shelter of white picket fences,
I bare the rash of well-trimmed lawns, and
The ***** stains on my cream cashmere sweaters,
Are a medallion from consuming the well-seasoned affairs,
Served on my neighbor’s best white pattern china.
Another cookie waiting to be devoured from a suburban neighborhood.

This is my city,
Never my warm-hearted mother’s idea of a home.
But she never caught a young girl’s thumb
Tracing the tangled, concrete blood vessels,
The clogged arteries pumping commuters in out of the inner city,
That I could only grasp at through a frosted windowpane.


This is my city,
The only person who shares this lonely view,
A witness to the darkened false fronts under dimming city lights,
Whose whispering winds extinguish the explosive roar below,
The only arms that embrace me at night while I pray in vain:
Please, do forgive me if I fade away.
Peyton James Apr 2013
Here we lie,
Within the clench of these metal jaws
Behind the veil of Earth below your feet.
We are merely the permanent residue of the pen
Who did bravely keep us here.

Now tucked into these pages, and mementos
We once did live and breathe
In the mist of the youthful mind
But now we struggle to fill these aged lungs
From deep within our enduring slumber.

Where you have heard the hollow bells ring out
With every passing hour,
Where you have watched the world crumble
And reshaped with each generations’ sculptors,
We remain a collection of unaltered memories
Patiently waiting for your return.

Being remembered is an ambition we never seem to forget.
Peyton James Dec 2012
My warn looking glass,
A reflection of, not me,
But a tasteless you.
Next page