The English vice,
Some Etonian curse –
Set down in grass
And purple verse,

Lavatory bred
With ransacked blood,
Skin slapping and
With a falling thud –

Takes boys at childhood,
Wishes them away,
With promises of popper fuelled buffets,

And poisons them with
Vice and virus red,
And sees them unmarried
Giving head.

I don’t regret a single thing I am,
I’ve tried it out
And can’t abide the sham –

I’ll **** men
And make them beg for more,
I’ll scrabble for their love upon the floor,

I’ll love men
And love will love me too,
I’ll love for love’s own sake
And when I’m through

I’ll die and I’ll be thankful that your hate
Never made me beg that I was straight.

If I wasn't gay would people care?
Would they actually let me breath the same air?
Could I actually go to school,
without people being so cruel?
Could I live in a world with no hate?
Maybe people would love me if I was straight.
It's not as easy as people think.
I can't just go to a shrink.
I didn't choose to be this way.
You really think I'd want to be gay?
I don't want attention,
I don't want fame.
This isn't some sort of game.
I am who I am and thats okay.
Most people don't see it that way.
I only wish I could be the same.
To have a wedding and it not be shamed.
I want to have kids and not be judged.
I don't want my reputation smudged.
But apparently I'm different now.
Sick in the head somehow.
Therapy and shock treatment for something that can't be fixed.
How did I get put into this mix?
Toxic and tragic,
that's my life.  
It's like I was stabbed in the back with a knife.
I'm gay,
what's wrong with that?
I get treated like some rat.
Using your holy books and your religion.
To fight against something that makes no difference.
I want to be a human not a punching bag.
Always getting called a ***.
Let that word have power and it gets to you.
But that words as good as whatever is stuck to the bottom of my shoe.
I love being this way.
I don't care what you say.

[Dedicated to our fellowpoet, The DedPoet]

Horror.
Evilness.

We throw up,
our heart
we hang in a rope of tears.

All the gods
are silent.

And blind.

We watch
ourselves,
torned,
a full pain
turning us
into
a punishing fury,
apocalyptical riders.

And then
we see them,
the children.
So restless,
fearfull,
sorrowed...

But they fell asleep.

We watch over them.

And love,
unconditional love,
a forever love kind,
overwhelming love,
makes us understand
we are needed
and we must stay
and we must be able
to learn them,
our children, our own blood,
to trust again.

And we cry
and our tears
are their protection.

And they awaken,
stirred, first,
but we hug them,
the two at a time.
No words are needed.
Just love.
They will know
it is the real thing.

[Here lies...]*


Here lies memory.

Kneeling grief,
monologue
cloaking grave stones
loveless hands polished.

Self pity
in automotion.

Solitude.

Who will love us now?
Retelling stories
of  the gone past,
biased truth
to elude
this
emptyness.