My head, my heart, they are empty,
producing, containing nothing.
Yet, they are stuffed to the max,
flooding with thoughts, emotions, worries, hopes.
How can one be so empty, yet so full?
I am a ghost existing,
alive and dead in this twisted world.
They drain us of vitality and fill us with emptiness.
We are the lost.
Don’t bother looking for us,
we are already gone, found.

Build.
I was told that woman are made to build.
But wait...
What if I told you that my gender identity was as messy as raindrops as they hit the ground?
What if the only thing I can build are stanzas in some wanna be poem.

Yes, I do have a ****** but I bind my ******* so tightly I cannot tell the difference between breathing,
And a panic attack.

I am not a woman.
I am not the type.
I am your type.

When I am asked what I would like to be when I grow up,
Isn't it sad that that the first thought that occupies my mind is,
"I want to be a man.."

My mother pushed out her precious baby girl and keep in mind I had a brother.
Have a brother.
*** and gender are two completely different things, darling.

When someone asks what I want to be when I get older,
I will say a carpenter.
Because at least then I can build myself to be a man.
From the ground up.

But for now I will have to settle for pecks made out of metaphors,
And the thought of a ***** as long as my lyrics.
Would you still love me if I was a man?
If not,
Then have fun choking on my poetry.