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ConnectHook Dec 2017
❣ = ❣ = ❣

HE am not it
HERS + HIS = HERES
WE am SHE but pronoun are sexist
THEY is ZHEY
SHE + HE = ZHE
SHE + IT = ****
HE + roomfull of SHEs = they (not sexist)

Down with all gender-based languages!
Gender-based grammar is inherently sexist and oppressive.
Grammar itself is a hateful, rigid, and often overtly racist construct.
It is little more than an imposed control system which attempts to assign roles and reinforce identities that facilitate social regimentation.  Such patriarchal and occidental euro-supremacist control must be resisted, even at the socio-linguistic level of grammar itself. Traditional family structure reinforces and justifies this linguistic oppression, and is to be forced to adapt or rendered obsolete. "Fathers" and "Mothers" must yield to  "others".

Useless vestiges of the fascistic Roman tongue such as Italian, Spanish, French, Portuguese, and Romanian, along with all associated Romance-derived dialects must adapt and evolve toward current progressive understandings of gender-fluid reality -- or be abandoned.

As a global and genderfluid re-evaluation of rigid and outmoded languages develops, humanity will make significant strides toward collective empowerment, both lexical and ******. Desire will be freed from patriarchal norms and find itself free to cathect onto the object of its enlightened choice.  False and patriarchal notions of singular/plural will no longer be inflicted on unrestrained multiplicities of being. We won't need no more significators to point out a practices that mean a nothings man out the reified racists of language herself as pronouned "other".  Boo boo hate she up the mandingo adder abbot shahooligalistaaphany.
Urgh urgh I are free! Bort grammar break ump ump humpty daffodil.
It am not significate ourselves into oblivion.
parttimeboy Nov 2017
I wake up, sweating
I dreamt about it again
My parents finding out.

It's World War 2.
My mom is driving down the road behind me,
Chasing me.
She is driving a ****'s car.
I'm running down a way so many people before me ran down
They, too, shared my or a similar secret

But I see contact mines in front of my feet, everywhere
My mom smiles and waves, makes a horrible face
I smile and wave back, feeling more and more dead
Than alive

I know this dream
I'm supposed to end up with the girl at the end
It's supposed to have a nice end
But it doesn't

Because I wake up, sweating
I dreamt about it again
My parents finding out.
This poem is based on one of my nightmares about coming out to my parents that I've had this night. Since coming to terms with being bisexual, I've had dreams like these often, but until now, they were all different. So I might document them like this whenever I have them - the **** part was probably influenced by a talk I went to yesterday evening, a talk by a 87-year-old survivor who was forgotten during one of the death marchs in 1945 when she was one year younger than I  am now.
do they ever ask you your gender on a form and
just let you
answer no

sometimes when they leave a blank line for you to write on
I just write
lol

it's all too funny to engage with
where to be begin
tell me why we're still doing this
lol no
Foster Jul 2017
Here in Kentucky
We don't show our queer
Without a laugh or a fashionable button
I've learned my lack of identity makes others nervous
And I am a shotgun going off in the dark
I scare myself too
When I look in the mirror
Is that me or no
Or fifty percent and what half
And what half
Can I remove with a butter knife
And what half
Can I live with
And tomorrow
Will I be okay with all of it or will I prefer a potato sack
To my skin
Again

I ask you what do you think genderqueer means
And you answer
Nothing

You're not wrong
fairyenby Jul 2017
It drives me insane when people see me holding a girls hand and ask
“So who’s the guy? You know, who wears the pants?”
I want to scream and say WE ARE LESBIANS. Firstly, neither of us are ever wearing any pants. I want to scream and say WE ARE LESBIANS, and i’m angry because lesbian does not always have to mean woman but where did you get man from? I’m angry because maybe sometimes one of us does identify as a guy. A gay boi with an I. A soft boy. A proud hairy legged 5”4 boy. A drinking pints in the pub with my dad and us both liking that same woman’s tattoo boy. A cries every day boy. A feels cool when drinking beer boy. A boy that had to teach themself to like beer boy. A boy who sometimes does not feel like a boy. A boy. A boy. Oh boy. Boys. You see, this question is confusing for me because when I was fourteen, my boyfriend and I would joke that I was the one wearing the pants, even though at that point I was very much still wearing skirts and hiding behind ****-length hair and also watching the L Word in secret when I got home from school but that’s besides the point. This question is obviously as confusing for you as it is for me because in your mind you see two pairs of **** holding hands on the tube and think: Lesbians. Now, which one’s the man? And I think to myself, there are two ways to answer this: Number 1: So I know lesbian is supposed to mean woman on woman, two vaginas, *******, strap-ons, veganism, art degrees (and a lot of this is true but let’s not stereotype). So I know that to you, although we appear to be two women, two snap-back wearing, sports-bra bearing- I mean I thought about writing *****- tearing here but it just doesn’t seem appropriate- women, the funny thing is that erm, you see, gender and sexuality: as different as my dad to my mum’s other ex-husband. We are not a man and a woman. We are two people and what do pants have to do with it? We are two people and why does one of us always have to be a man? We are two people and the awkward part of the point i’m making is that sometimes I don’t feel like a woman but you wouldn’t know that so let me say: we are not a man and a woman. We did not ask for your confrontation, we are not your designated driver, your answer sheet to an exam you haven’t sat yet, your house party when your parents go away, your girlfriend that you think is obliged to **** your **** even though you will not go anywhere near her ****.  You are not our three year old son who asks too many inappropriate questions. To you, we are strangers and to answer your question, you seem to think that you’re wearing the pants here. So wear them. By the way, Number 2: *******.
this is a draft nd might be changed but also might not be so

yeah

I got angry again

x
fairyenby Jul 2017
a body
floating in space
a mirror
unknown, a face
a chest, that rises and falls
*******, unwanted, I stall
this label, this name, this "girl"
whom only on certain days, echoes my world
otherwise i'm known as the ghost
an inbetween, a maybe,
almost.
April 2016
fairyenby Jul 2017
He awoke and found himself
inside the body of another.
Safe in the darkness
gentle amniotic arms held him whilst muffled voices dictate his fate
“You’re having a girl” they exclaimed,
and he lay, wondering what this meant.  

He awoke and found himself  
inside the words of another.  
Inside the “brother” he never was, rather than never had  
and the “boy”  that scuffed his knees in adventure.  

He awoke and found himself
“a pretty girl”, “a princess”, “just like her mother”
so he closed his eyes and dreamt of another.
A world of train-sets and barber shops,
birthday candle wishes to replace long, curly locks

he awoke, and found himself floating
in space
his face, unrecognisable in the mirror.  
His chest seemed to grow branches  
as if by night the doctors that had pulled him from her womb
had suddenly discovered his secret.  

They grew like thorns until they were all he could see.
Those and the other boys, s h a t t e r i n g jigsaw piece body parts
every time he looked at them.  
He wondered why when their voices deepened, it was called a voice  
break and not a gift.  
A broken larynx. A birthday present lost in the post,
instead he unwrapped their super glued puzzle pieces,
piling them onto his plate
if you eat your vegetables, you’ll grow up to be a man.

“You’re having a girl”, more like “You can pass go but you will never collect 200 dollars”.
“You’re having a girl”, more like “earthquakes will erupt inside your mind every time you hear the words
“She”, “Her”, “Sister”
“You’re having a girl”, but he was  

“He”, “His”, “Mister”.

And when he cut his hair, and found himself  
in the arms of over-sized t-shirts and grown out leg hair,
they would say
“you look like a boy”, as if they expected him to protest in offence
but his heart feels as warm as the breeze that blows through thornless branches of trees  
and he wants to say thank you.  
He wants to say that the words  
“You look like a boy” manage to stitch up his jigsaw piece body parts,
for these are the words that cut through his mothers dresses and threw away the thread
these, are the words that in time would cause his voice to break;
remind him that he is not broken
and bury his girlhood beneath his bed.
October 2016
Elliott Jul 2017
I have spoken
too hard, too much,
I can't feel my face anymore.

I am a fighter.
My fist aren't
as powerful
as my mouth
(as much as i'd like them to be)
so I swing my tongue to
form out syllables,
instead of my arm.

Unfortunately for you,
I can't fight who I am.

I am not a dog who
will roll over for you,
then expect you
to throw me a bone.

I am not a woman
you will pressure into silence.

I am not a person,
you will force to conform.

You scream
your injustices
around me and

I disagree
I fight back.
I don't back down.

I don't apologize for it.

My lips stand
so badly beaten,
blood fills cracks
of my dry lips,
but I'd say
it was worth it.

I'd take
a couple of napkins of
soaked blood
over submission
to wrong doing
Anytime.
This is why my classmates started calling me Riot
Zero Nine Jun 2017
People laugh,
I hurt
But I don't mind
Gender is the joke
I am the punchline

Fighting for
the binaries
when our
expression is
undefined

If I die
then I'll be
the last bit lived true
My angry people
may take my body
since I'll
not be back
For myself and all my others.

Inspired by Morrissey's debut solo album, "Viva Hate" (1988)
Zero Nine Apr 2017
I write because I have
no talent. I wind up
cooking for reasons
all the same. Relegate
me to solemn, lonely
domestics. Is it worse
even still you call me
Sir? Or is it ****** up
that I care? Well,
how dare you,
Shitlord.
How dare
You.
******* you ******.
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