My gender
My ****** orientation
My disability
My problems
My colour of skin
My size
My voice
My place of origin
My clothes
My religion
My past
My mistakes
My label
Shouldn't be the determination of how you treat me

they say love is not supposed to hurt
but it does.
it hurts to say it.
it hurts to feel it.
it hurts to know it.

but maybe it's not the love itself
that is painful.
what's painful are the cracks
and ropes
that trap us to this mess.
I'm tired of being trapped here
and I'm tired of feeling hurt.
I wanna escape
but there's not a single way out

All your life
you're told to keep fighting,
to "stay strong"
and to "carry on."

Never once was I told that it was okay
to not be okay.

That I was allowed
to cry
and be upset.

Because my tears were a weakness,
and those words couldn't hurt me,
and my "imaginary” fears couldn't taunt me.

And so I would hold it in.

Try and hold back the tears.
Stare at the ceiling when you're upset.
Distract yourself.
Make fun of your sensitive being.
Turn your emotions into a joke.

But inside,
my throat is burning
and
my vision is blurred
and
my heart is pounding
and
I can't say a word.


Because if I say something,
just one sentence,
everyone will know.

And no one should know.

Because my tears are a weakness
and my emotions are a joke.

And it's true that they teach this.

No,
not in my school,
but in my home,
and on the T.V.,
and in the apps on my phone.

Society taught me at a young age
not to cry.
To "**** it up"
and behave.

Because no one cares
about my emotions
and my feelings
and my well being

until it's too late

and I'm already

too far
gone.

I will stumble over my words
while I stumble
into you.
Show me where you are wicked,
and I will show you
mine.
Let me taste the pitch black
ink as it drips from
your lips,
and you can read to me
the thoughts you hold
close.
Take me to the place within
where you are not pulled
into a thousand directions,
that one place where
you are still,
that one place where
you are home.

Silent now the television
Silent now the telephone
Silently I sit here,
Silent and alone.

I’m not sure why the poems
Are much harder now to write
Not sure why the sleep
Comes harder every night
Not sure if all the trials in life
Are harder now to take
I’m not sure that when the morning comes
That I will even wake.

If I was asked to take a risk
Not sure that I would dare
I’m not sure if I was dying
Anyone would care
Not sure that Heaven waits for me
Behind the pure white Pearly Gate
If I asked for fifteen minutes more
Not sure the Reaper-man would wait.

I’m not sure if my mistakes in life
Outweigh any good
Not even sure that honestly
I’ve done the best I could
Not sure when folks remember me
If they will grimace, or they’ll grin
Not sure official scorekeepers
Would vote my life a win.

Not sure if I have lived before
Not sure if there’s a second chance
Not even sure with lessons
I could learn to dance this dance
The world makes me dizzy
The carousel spins too fast.
Not sure my horse could win the derby
The brass ring might have already passed.
But I'm not sure.

Silently I sit here.

PwL 6/16/15