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Lily Feb 21

We hide ourselves wherever we can
A rainbow spilling over in every crevasse
of our hidden identities

Secret club meetings and handshakes
Blue feathers reaching towards the sky
from our vulnerable heads
Hayley Kiyoko references
whispers in the night from an all girls sleepover
Violet flowers spilling from our hands

Identities lost in a sea of overwhelming fear
Of people finding the hidden door
Opening it up, trying to find hidden treasures
Hidden treasures discovered to be
Rainbow potion

We are united through hiding
We are the hidden ones
in a few words;
after a million lies.

in a couple minutes;
after years.

the glass closet fell away;

in a few words;
I was free.
Rain is refreshing in a strange, backward way. It shocks you out of a deep, prolific lapse of participation in reality and reminds you that you’re still here. You’re still corporeal, tangible, you can feel and you can decide. But rain is still rain. It can be cold and unpleasant to be faced with, or it can be warm and welcoming. Beconing you forth to splash and smile in the reality you forgot still applied to you.
    I left behind the idea of full, around the clock consciousness during my last frigid thunderstorm. I realized, during a session already dedicated to realizations, how exhausting it was trying to live my reality to its current extent. How frustrating and soul-crushing it is to have the ambition you truly believed in and planned to embark upon, forgone by the limits of a situation you have no control over. I kept a small jar of ideas and plans in the very back corner of my closet. They were safe, they couldn’t be taken out back and shot nor could they be taunted and destroyed from the inside out. When I was cornered in my intruded closet, when I was taken by the collar and shaken for my truth, they were found. Both above-mentioned circumstances played out shortly but in the opposite order. That’s when it began to rain.
    I decided on an alternative: selective awareness. I keep myself alive only feeling and participating when the rain is tepid and pleasant. When I feel the temperature beginning to drop, I fall back asleep, floating through lull and lash, until the sun comes to change the course of my simulation. For days, all I will see is fog. I’m lost and isolated, but that lack of direction comes with an onset of contentedness. There is no one who can see me wandering through a deluded course I have set for myself. I don’t know where I’m walking, I don’t know what’s in front of me, so the warm rain will give me a pleasant surprise as it melts away the fog and gives me hope for sustainable warmth.
    The cloudiness that lingers in my head, even when I’m experiencing kindness and sensitivity, reminds me that my effort to make my reality more livable is as viable as staying completely shrouded in fog until I wander off the edge of a cliff. Eventually, as I age out of my simulation, I’ll have skin thick enough to withstand the hailstorm I’ll be forced to reckon with. Resilience is necessary, but hope exists. I often forget it does while I’m wondering, but serenity and light remind me that fog isn’t all I’ve devolved into. Rain will come, and so will spring.
Poolza Jan 28



Johnny Noiπ Jan 26
Struggling against his Inner
Self;         he finally comes out
at 30, telling anyone willing
to listen his weird tales & odd
sayings,   making others think
he was only attracted to his
own kind;            until finally,
declaring he & his father one,
he as publicly mocked &
crucified;       his friends
turn their backs on him, people
make up stories about the
fabulous things he did, his only
real message to love one other;
Pilate, a sexist-homophobe
hailed to the crowd: 'Shall I
release the ****** son of a ******!
A good Jew who tends to the sick?
Or Barabbas?              Serial ******,
murdering thief, *****, dealer, liar,
& general ****?'
'Give us Barabbas!'   they cry as
if welcoming a conquering hero,
and Barabbas is released among
them like a wolf among sheep...
Crucify!' They cry ever louder:
'Crucify the ****** Carpenter!
Let him build his own cross!!!'
Heeding the crowd, Pilate
has him pilloried on a cross
fashioned by 'Joseph & Son inc.'        
The event going so well,      
soon Joseph's shop has a run
on crosses...
Estelle Dec 2018
Here it is dark and frigid.
A clustered space,
where unknown thoughts
not to be told
can be free.

In this damp closet
I am enclosed, locked,
forced to come to
terms with the fact I try
to avoid most.

trail my arms, and a
shiver involuntarily flows
through my body, leaving
behind an icy cold touch.

My mouth feels taped shut,
as if there is duct tape,
as if I can feel the sticky
surface of it against my lips.  

I can’t help but feel trapped
In this too small ****.
If I open the doors, maybe
I can be free. An unbeknownst
World lies ahead.
This poem can be taken as two different ways. One is, being part of the LGBTQ community and being afraid to come out, or, the way I intended it to be, keeping a secret about something identifying, but being afraid to let it out and be yourself.
Anya Dec 2018
The golden baby
In the last slice of Mardigras cake

A half dollar
Well after they stopped being printed

A rare right sided conch
When most others are left

Are the rare treasures I find buried underneath

The glass bird
Dainty as can be
And the size of a nail

The miniature tea cup
A full set
Spoon and all

The Minni and Miki
Mouse holiday wear
mini collectibles

Miniature Kitty Kat
In four different colors

Are the tiny bobbles I couldn’t bear to part with

The multitudes of dice
From classic six sided
To 8 To 12
Even dice in dice
More than can be counted

Erasers by the gazillions
Stingrays, baseball gloves
Eraser pencils with missing erasers
And a baby head detached from the body

Keychains, by the plenty
Sunglasses, Weapons
Dream catchers, bird’s with bells, all sorts
Of strange and curious oddities attached to a chain

Coins, many sizes countries
Fake, real
Dinar, Rupee, Euro, dollar,
Replica of ancient yuan

Don’t even get me started
Necklaces, bracelets
Rings and earrings
Even though my ears aren’t pierced!

My hoarding tendencies coming to light in this
Curious collection of collections
Also known as
The objects in my closet
I was looking through my closet and I just had to make a poem about it.
Shannon Soeganda Dec 2018
It is liberating indeed,

to be accepted inside and out for who you trully are;

being able to love who you want to love,

to choose whom you want to spend the rest of your life with,

and to live freely under your skin with comfort;

not needing to hide under layers of masks—

for life is not a masquerade.
You’re living your life to the most, if you can live your life to the fullest by being authentic.
Mr Quiet Nov 2018
"No one will accept you."
Said my conscience to myself.
So what's the point of not being alone?
When no one's there to say you're not going to ****.

And you define my identity as a tragedy,
You don't want my truth so you just deny.
So for once in your ignorant life,
Please have an open mind.

And if you decide to stop your fight,
Maybe we can settle this conflict,
And have a good time.

"You're just confused, you're too young for this."
Yet you expect me to give chocolates to a girl,
And give her a kiss.
Double standard at it's best,
Just accept me as myself.
Don't think I'm perplexed,
I know who I am and you can't change who I am and tell me to be someone else.

You say you worship Him,
You say that He is LOVE.
You say He washed my sins,
Stop acting like I'm a criminal.
Stop saying that we'll go to ****,
You're like the Pharisees.
You spread the opposite of what He tells,
You homophobic, extremist wannabes.

And I'm a Christian kid,
I believe in Him,
And if you think He hates me for my sins,
Then go ahead,
Let's settle this.

Let me believe,
That He still wants me.
And let me see,
From your actions,
He still wants me.
The "You" stands for every homophobic people i know
Wyatt Oct 2018
I once dug deep in my closet,
looking past the skeletons.
Treasures were found,
covered in dust and
forgotten by time.
I found happier times
documented in memories,
yet every time I leave
I’m more depressed.
Toys, tiny cars,
coloring books
and stuffed animals
hiding under the junk.
There came a time where
this wonderland of the past
gave me nothing but anguish
in this present day.
I forced myself to never
set foot in this place again.
That closet was wiped clean,
not a dust particle to be found.
I barely even remember
that place’s contents now.
Is it better this way?
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