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Kai Aug 28
there, in that pool of blood
lies the evidence of my
arrogation to presume
i could make the world a fool

truths i declared were lies
swirl down the porcelain
drown in condemning pain;
my identity's demise

umbilical conceit,
crimson hypocrisy,
with this sure paradox
why do i not know defeat?
Asominate Apr 3
Isn't it a lonely world?
Watching from the other side
My life is just passing me by

"You naughty girl,
Questionably feminine,
You know you are a freaking sin!"

Gouge my eyes and watch me scream
Another day
Won't wake up to my dreams
What can I say
When you wouldn't listen?

I don't have your permission

Look into the massive sky
Feeling so inferior
I cry on the interior

"You shameful guy,
Excuse of masculinity."
I'm never allowed to be me

Gouge my eyes and watch me scream
Another day
Won't wake up to my dreams
What can I say
When you wouldn't listen?

I don't have your permission

What can I say,
But dream another day?
margo Nov 2022
Not knowing if we would have worked out had I stayed in London.
Not knowing if you think about me as much as I think about you.
Not knowing if you ever thought about me all those days apart.
Not knowing if you had also wanted to kiss me that afternoon.
Not knowing if we would be together had I been born a boy.
Not knowing if it is me or my gender that is putting you off.
Not knowing if I will ever get to hold your hand.
Not knowing if I will ever get to kiss you.
Not knowing if I will ever see you again.
Not knowing if I will ever be with you.
Not knowing if I will ever be myself.
Not knowing if I will ever be you.
This 'poem' marks me starting to write again. Everything else on my page is fairly old, so please do not take it too seriously..
Filomena Aug 2022
The world is hollow
And I am just a guy
I find it hard to swallow,
But logic must apply

Without it, I am lost
There's no alternative
I wish I knew the cost
To live how I want to live
Psych ward poetry.
Set 3, poem 50.
Katie Mar 2022
A frayed tendril of pathetic string,
Run taught above my head.
A blade of dismay, terror, fear;
Standing in perfect contrast to everything I want to be.

'Tis nought more than a fickle thing,
Not a feeling to be felt or a word to be said,
Yet it continues to hinder me here.
It's the waiting doom that awaits all goodwill I'd set free.

A twang of snapped twine,
Again and again and again and again,
It all falls down yet remains in place;
Tying up it's own phantom madness to strike deep within me.

Unpredictable, I was feeling fine,
'Till the blade deemed to split me in twain,
And once again tears stream down my face.
Drowning in a selfish torrent of fog through which I cannot see.
Filomena Feb 2022
You can't erase your face.
You can't retrace or displace
the lines you dislike.
Some people try. Why?
At best it makes a mess.

Why am I upset by a little extra bone?
The external effects of my natural testosterone?
How can a bit of unwanted hair excite despair?
Why do I care?

I pointlessly worry
about silly points
like the size of my shoulders
or my knee and thumb joints.
My hairline, my brow ridge,
the shape of my nose,
my masculine pelvis,
my crooked man toes...


My eyes are fine --
My only feature I like.
My shy smile is alright
but not too wide
'cause of my overbite --
-- the size of those incisors!

Now, some would say that I'm just vain,
so self-obsessed I've gone insane.
But I would say that's how we're trained,
At least in this day and age.

Others might paint me like Dorian Gray
praying to Satan for youth to stay,
but I just wish it hadn't gone this way.

Why would you keep your looks immutable
if you were never to begin with beautiful?
Nov. 2018 - Feb. 2022
I wrote most of this poem from a pre-transition perspective.
My circumstances and perspective have changed a fair bit.
I tried to emulate the original perspective in my later additions.
Filomena Feb 2022
******* hell
stuck in gel
down a well
brownstone shell

jumbled brain
tumbling train
mumbling rain
crumb of pain

ghastly face
nasty trace
silent pace
file in place

all a game
act the same
feel no shame
killing name
Late Feb. 2022
CIN Feb 2022
Here's the thing,
               You are a boy, not really but you try to be,
               You are a boy, addicted to masculine words, and pretty poetry
                                                                          About two boys falling in love
You enter a room and say,
                             “Hello i am a boy, and if you tell me i'm not ill show you.”
Your fists do the talking when your throat cant,
You come home to your mother,
                                  All black eye, and busted lip,
“I’m a boy!” You cry,
                           And she shakes her head, eyes wet like
You are sent to your room,
                                           To wallow in your disgrace.
Your chest aches,
                      But you ignore it,
                                           Choosing instead to rest your weight.
Can you tell I've been binge reading Richard Siken's works
Katie Feb 2022
It's all I'll ever be;
The hairs I missed and the blood I drew,
It's the truth I wish I couldn't see.
It's pain to be replaced with pain anew,
An endless cycle, a nightmare,
Living as this creature, this mutt,
Consistently choking on rancid air,
Throttled in hemp I can't cut;
This hell will never end.
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