Mom, I have something to say, you see,
I’m not the pretty little girl,
That you want me to be.
I do not wish to be considered female,
It just isn’t me,
All the dresses, skirts,
Or all of this femininity.

I wish to be male,
If you’d please just accept,
That your “daughter” has never been “female” at heart,
So please show respect.

She and her pronouns just aren’t me,
But instead, I will go by him and he.

Being called male is what I dream,
And going by Ryan, if you please.

I still love you and that will never change,
But I just thought I should tell you this,
Just a slight rearrange,
In who you knew as Raylyn,
The name that I will no longer accept.

My poem is now coming to a close,
And I’m hoping that one day you’ll truly accept,
Me for me, no matter what clothes.


Thank you, mom.

Sleep deprived dreaming.
You counted the shadows on the wall,
only to see that the real monster is still breathing.
You saw the red bricks drop inside suicidal minds,
only to hear the deaf people start screaming.
Tempers so loud, veins pulsating
around your neck, everyday words
have no meaning.

Just look at those rusted, old stop signs
with shot up bullet holes,
they sit on old, abused street corners near cardboard mansions of the tired and weary
and the $20 crack ******.
Your feet get red and blistered from pounding this
busted up pavement with worn out, useless soles.
You feel like you are standing softly with
a distant shovel digging up your own brittle bones.

This convoluted dream is all broken,
rotten inside spider web corridors,
empty alleyways with bicycles stolen.
You try and sleep with both eyes closed,
but the sun shines through the cracked
window panes
but it is not yet golden.
The loud whispers turned into silent screams,
can you hear me slowly falling?

I saw you beg for change on the corner
of  Western and North.
with your raggedy , torn clothes
and a lot of street sense survival.
You just held up your homemade cardboard
sign for some help, a home, and
Oh!! Thank the Lord,
your own street sense revival.
I saw the tall, gray, city people spit on you
and you just sat there
and read your raggedy, torn bible.

Why does this have to be?
People not caring for each other,
not loving each other, or not praying for peace.
So don't just walk by or drive by
and not give a ****,
like you don't really see.
Maybe that useless soul that stands on the street corner, in those raggedy, torn clothes,
is your mother, your father
your sister, your brother
or maybe it is just, just, just me.

I'll take my time to dance
around this place I call the world.
A place to the many, the few, the rich,
the poor, the fallen and the cruel.

I'll dance a mini waltz across the fields
of the golden flow of wheat fields and drown into
the seas of the deep, as your little toe
only touches the surface of the cold water.

I'll catch each star that I see in the evening sky
while the other
stars wax the dance floor with
velvet memories of constant
tomorrows and melted dreams.

I'll sweep the musical notes
under the rug that plays
from the piano,
as it's  lyrical raindrops hit my heart
softly with countless bliss and
mindless thought.

I'll sift through the symphonies of time
as they cascade their 8 notes in a 2 second beat
off the balcony and then I'll bury their
melodies in my own backyard.

I'll dance with the strings of the harp
interlaced between my fingers
then kiss the reeds of the woodwinds
as they play their melancholy songs.

So please, I ask of you, give me one
more moment
on the dance floor
in this world and let the many, the few,
the poor, the fallen and the cruel dance with me.
Let us take up one more waltz together