What’s the harm in joining with a crowd of people
United around a rainbow and a passion for equality?

If it’s true that
God Hates ****
Then we’re in real trouble
Under the colours of His great judgment on the party of depravity
Entitling the parade as
Pride
Which goes before destruction

If it’s true that
God is Love
Then let’s not be offended
There is no need for
Straight Pride Day
Unless I missed the memo
Threatening the death penalty for love and marriage

Is it not the case that the driver for Gay Pride
Is that some are treated differently, judged by their inside
When the rest of humanity can step up and take Pride
In their efforts and achievements, and not what they confide
In their most trusted friends so as to dodge that stereotype?

So why has the parade become the world’s greatest collection
Of the loudest, brashest versions of the most extreme ideas
When almost every gay person I know is almost disappointingly…
Normal?

My Gay-Proudest moment was when I gave a job
To an LGBT chairman, who stood out from the crowd
Not because of his leaning and not because of pity
But for being the best fit and better-skilled than the rest

The Day on which we can be
Gayest and Proudest
Will be the day when there’s no need
For Gay Pride Day

Ignore the hurt.
Ignore the pain.
Ignore the pictures.
Throw them away.

Ignore the emptiness you feel.
Just tell yourself, "it isn't real."
Maybe if you just ignore
your shattered heart upon the floor
then maybe you can just pretend
that you never lost a friend.

i stand in the mirror for hours
wondering what it is about me that makes me so easy to replace
i stand over the sink and try to wash the words "use me" off my forehead
only to find out it was tattooed on to my skin
i run my fingers down my body and feel every single name of the boys that came after you carved on to me like a name on a grave stone
i place my hand on my heart but feel no beat

because see they talk about death as in the ones who leave forever, but they never talk about the ones that have died but are still walking this earth
they don't talk about the ones with fake smiles and laughs that are just illusions
illusions so you can't see that they are just completely empty inside
a walking grave

i stand in the mirror for hours
wondering what it is about me that makes me so easy to replace

but now i know- no one can love someone that's already dead

it follows me during the day
quietly resting in the morning
slowly awaking in the afternoon

i take a pill at noon
it takes a nap again

but by the evening
my thoughts are scrambled
my fingertips raw
bleeding from the edges

preoccupied with my thoughts
distant and out of touch

i escape to be alone
but i find myself alone
with the four corners of my mind
and i escape again
to my friends
to my work
to my safe places

but i always find myself alone
with the four corners of my mind

where do i run to now

5 year old me
thought it was
sharing things with people
crying with them

12 year old me
thought it was
holding hands
the term "boyfriend"

15 year old me
thought it was
kissing
touching

18 year old me
now understands
love comes in many different forms
sometimes in words
sometimes in expressions
sometimes in staying
and sometimes in leaving.

On misty fields
stained with blood
once fighting soldiers
now lie still

faces and hands, open to the sky
not seeing, not feeling
dark, red, gaping holes
through which life has dashed
leaving survivors to decide
how many more will die

even as we speak
war is waging
on fields not far
a sword is ran through
blood flows from both sides
everyone sees, everyone knows
the wound won't heal
it's always in the back of our minds

For we are the living matter
overflowing with love and hate
we are the ones who cut
the ones who bleed
we are the wound
everyone feels the pain

I've written a million poems, a million words about you. They're all worthless, and could never do your existence justice. Could never unclench my heart, or dry my sweaty palms.

Not a single letter could be added to any word to properly describe the utter being, and ethereal being that is you.
My pen is useless when I look at you. My words are jumbled symbols that make no sense when you even sigh.

My fingertips lose all magic. My art is worthless when I look into your eyes. There is no delicate stroke of my pen that could truly form the words that describe what I see in you, or your soul.

I'm merely a fool, lovesick and throwing up complicated nonsense that my soul cannot contain. Poe would be ashamed.

****. I just love you.