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little lion Oct 12
I want to come out.
I want to walk out and slam the door behind me
with whatever variation of a rainbow flag
billowing in the wind as I walk past.

I want to be out.
I want to be me and do so shamelessly
without fear of judgement or dislike
from people who may disagree

I wish I was out.
But I don't even know what I am
I want be yours and yours alone,
but there's no flag for that

I wish I was yours...
you have my mind and body and soul
but I'm just here on the side,
because you are still hers.
I wish you would choose me.
I can't imagine anything else
It feels pointless to try
I was given this
Whatever it is
Everything it is
Painful, scary, heartbreaking
Sometimes beautiful
Beautiful enough to keep me here


There might be more
Something good
Holding out for magic
Things I felt when I was young
Before reality was cement
It feels like lifetimes ago
Ancient pain
Ancient fear and guilt and shame
I can't distinguish now from then
I am wrapped up in it
Trapped by it and caged by it
Changed by it
Chained to it
Is living truly to suffer
I see that now

Nico Judd Oct 11
I’m not writing this.
I’m not writing this
because you’d never understand
And I don’t feel like
Feeling stupid

My chords vibrate deeply
when struck by the right person
Spit runs from my mouth
cooling cheeks in streaks of drool
I will not wipe away

You are many things
but you are not
that person.

Remote monochrome;
Colorblind critic;
Pale palette; and
Connoisseur of stale bread

You are pretty
and preserved behind glass
Every hair in place
Curtsy and bow
Curtsy and bow

And that is fine.
That is fine with me.
But not fine enough.
For me.

There are no words for
the shades inside.
Hues you couldn’t see
Even If I were to...
show this to you

There’s so much beauty in the circus.
But you’re the kind of person
who says they hate clowns
Because saying you hate clowns
renders you on the side
of the cool girl in school
(Because of course she hates clowns)

Don’t you understand?
Their performance is not the end, but the means.
The moulding of emotional clay
into a figure you should, but can’t quite, recognize

Shapes that catch you off guard
Stupid grey-brown lumps(!)
mocking the masterpiece you think you must be
Painted faces
parody the unblessed

So I won’t tell you this
because the main act scares you enough
Lifting the curtain
to this wild and unbound hyperbole
would get us all killed

Instead, I’ll stay
on the seedy side
of the canvas wall
and sing all the notes
that your ears cannot hear,

unmask that which is deeply unseen,
collide my vocal chords
with the calliope’s tinkering pitch
Shoulders unhinged and bouncing
like Shirley temple’s curls
on a soda fountain whim

Cuz I am everything all at once
and we are the freaks
who will sparkle beneath the canopy’s great haven
Throw our arms round each other
telling and showing and writing it all

Crying, with throats unbridled.


See me!
See me!
See me!
Written September 7, 2020
The dark is my favourite friend,
It welcomes me with open arms,
Every night he comes,
Forever bearing gifts.

One night after the other,
Who am I to refuse,
For I am alone,
And he is always on time.

I may not sleep,
But it does not matter,
For I have company,
My reliable companion.

And before I finally sleep,
And the light of enemy appears,
I bid farewell,
Until our next wanted meeting.
island poet Jul 10
morning first poem: tropical storm coming north

two days of rain, with a first appetizer of
***** white clouds falling to earth where
renamed, fog, a wonderful guttural word


a curse, a wonder, a summary, an exclamation,
later the rain and the wind will visit to remind
us who’s the boss, if the  blackout whiteness
was insufficient to mind mortals ro their proper
places, basements, closets, and  under the  covers,
thinking of Dorothy, visiting Oz, going home to that imaginary,
wherever it really be, if there is such a place

the avians coat the lawn, camouflaged in brown grass,
and climb the house as an animals-only observation deck,
a big buffet breakfast ordered, (possible delays for a civilized
lunch and a roast beef sup) in anticipation of the change in
atmospheric pressure, which is far more accurate than
the goofy looking weatherman on channel 61, who announces
disasters approaches with exactly the same unwavering, unnatural
damnastic enthusiasm as a gorgeous July Fourth weekend

and here I am watching, observing, thinking
maybe I’ll move the chairs and umbrella into
the garage, you know, be responsible for once,
instead of a lazy whatever pretend poet writer,
but the coffee is warm and fulfilling, the music
randomly licking, hitting my mental G spot,
this creamy easy poesy coming so pleasy so
being responsible just too damnistic boring,
and why start now?

Robert F. and Walt W. wave by, on their way to someone
better, it’s ok, they gave me the old college try,
and the ground is more fertile up North and
tropical storms are not of much interest when
the world is burning itself up and history is
being revised by rose colored glasses to make us forget,
if we clean up ancestral blackness evility incivility

then Jude Johnstone one of America's finest
songwriters sings her Wounded Heart, and I
hear it solo on piano, hear it break my heart,

”Wounded heart I cannot save,
You from yourself.
Though I wanted to be brave,
It never helps.
Cause your trouble's like a flood,
Raging through your veins.
No amount of loves enough
To end the pain.
Tenderness and time can heal,
A right gone wrong.
But the anger that you feel,
Goes on and on.
And it's not enough to know,
That I love you so.
So, I take my heart and go,
For I've had my fill.
If you listen you can hear,
The angels wings.
Up above our heads so near,
They are hovering.
Waiting to reach out for love,
When it falls apart.
When it cannot rise above
A wounded heart.
When it cannot rise above
A wounded heart...”

and now a tropical storm seems like no big deal,
and maybe someday
I’ll write so sad n’ soft, good
be at last
no longer afraid of the tropical storms
that live within...
Alaina Moore Jun 24
I grew up with God in the wind,
and didn't fit in with Christian friends.
They told me stories and begged me to repent.
Though doubtful, my anxiety sparked at the thought of sin.

I was once on a playdate and the mother told me.
She disowned her best friend when she confessed she was a lesbian.
She told me she could only take her back if she came to her senses.
It made me feel sad and sick, with little sympathy for the protagonist.

I was once told by a good friend that no one is bisexual, of course they're just confused.
I knew who I was but I didn't say anything in rebuttal.
I just nodded my head and took the bruise.

Once after jokingly seeing my boyfriend and another male friend hold hands, my mother told me "how dare those ******* disrespect you like that."
It was a moment that shattered glass and left scars.
I managed an apology after too much effort.

My stepfather once told me that gender fluidity was a confused phase, and a fad for attention.
Walls were put up and notes were taken.
Doors remained closed and silence  prevailed.

I am complicated.
I blend in to "normal"
I feel guilty at times and don't feel honest.

I undervalue, perhaps, the benefit of looping everyone in.
Or, perhaps, I'm just keeping the peace and heeding warning signals.

I can say for certain, it's not a fad nor phase.
I've always been who I am, I just had to grow up in order the phrase it.
A confession camouflaged as a poem.
Each verse is later in life. Starting from 12 ending around 26.
Kelsey Jun 19
What makes me sad and sometimes mad
Is that, there’s still a hurt little girl inside of me
She was not given a voice to be heard
She was never given the opportunity to be healed
This hurt little girl is still bruised and scarred
Remembering the fear that I had in me at a young age
The anxiety I felt
And the misunderstanding that I took
This hurt little girl that’s inside me still needs a sorry
She still needs a explanation on things she didn’t and couldn’t understand
This hurt little girl still is frightened of the world  
Still frightened of her world
I’m trying to heal her as I heal me too
This hurt little girl is beautiful as can be
As she is the damaged butterfly inside of me
ibkreator Jun 15
Little knowledge
knows the most

be created by unknowing
learn not to know

to see beyond the eye of looking
to form a formless mind
to furnish no time to creation
no vibration against your desires
to require no belief only clarity of sight
to look beyond creation and be creator
a clear essence looking thru the eye to an empty space
an essence
of what isn't
becoming what is
what isn't
be coming
Maja May 19
People don't know when the crack in the ground starts.
They only know when it breaks and they fall.
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