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Eliza Stride Jul 30
Cute little brunette with a yellow bra sprawled
Over my duvet in the amber sunlight. My
T shirt never looked as good as it did floating
Around her frame like a soft orbit
Round a lush pale planet. Her hair was everywhere, confetti on my carpet. Katherine all over.
Her ******* drench my face, soft fleshy love. I
can’t not stare directly into the neutron star at the center of her soul. Eyes be ****** if she isn’t the last thing I see. Katherine all over.
Lips like flower petals grace the side of my ear, as a whisper flutters through them, soft like cotton. Her warm breath spun around in my  brain. Her words felt like electricity, crackling and sparkling and catching fire. Flames could consume me before I’d leave her side.  Katherine all over.
Kitten Yvad Apr 13
I HAVE COME to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood. That the speaking profits me, beyond any other effect. I am standing here as a Black lesbian poet, and the meaning of all that waits upon the fact that I am still alive, and might not have been. Less than two months ago I was told by two doctors, one female and one male, that I would have to have breast surgery, and that there was a 60 to 80 percent chance that the tumor was malignant. Between that telling and the actual surgery, there was a three-week period of the agony of an involuntary reorganization of my entire life. The surgery was completed, and the growth was benign.



¶ 3
But within those three weeks, I was forced to look upon myself and my living with a harsh and urgent clarity that has left me still shaken but much stronger. This is a situation faced by many women, by some of you here today. Some of what I ex-perienced during that time has helped elucidate for me much of what I feel concerning the transformation of silence into language and action.




¶ 4
In becoming forcibly and essentially aware of my mortality, and of what I wished and wanted for my life, however short it might be, priorities and omissions became strongly etched in a merciless light, and what I most regretted were my silences. Of what had I ever been afraid? To question or to speak as I be-lieved could have meant pain, or death. But we all hurt in so many different ways, all the time, and pain will either change or end. Death, on the other hand, is the final silence. And that might be coming quickly, now, without regard for whether I had ever spoken what needed to be said, or had only betrayed myself into small silences, while I planned someday to speak, or waited for someone else’s words. And I began to recognize a source of power within myself that comes from the knowledge that while it is most desirable not to be afraid, learning to put fear into a perspective gave me great strength.




¶ 5
I was going to die, if not sooner then later, whether or not I had ever spoken myself. My silences had not protected me. Your silence will not protect you. But for every real word spoken, for every attempt I had ever made to speak those truths for which I am still seeking, I had made contact with other women while we examined the words to fit a world in which we all believed, bridging our differences. And it was the concern and caring of all those women which gave me strength and enabled me to scrutinize the essentials of my living.

¶ 6L
The women who sustained me through that period were Black and white, old and young, lesbian, bisexual, and heterosexual, and we all shared a war against the tyrannies of silence. They all gave me a strength and concern without which I could not have survived intact. Within those weeks of acute fear came the knowledge – within the war we are all waging with the forces of death, subtle and otherwise, conscious or not – I am not only a casualty, I am also a warrior.







¶ 7
What are the words you do not yet have? What do you need to say? What are the tyrannies you swallow day by day and attempt to make your own, until you will sicken and die of them, still in silence? Perhaps for some of you here today, I am the face of one of your fears. Because I am woman, because I am Black, because I am lesbian, because I am myself – a Black woman warrior poet doing my work – come to ask you, are you doing yours?






¶ 8
And of course I am afraid, because the transformation of silence into language and action is an act of self-revelation, and that always seems fraught with danger. But my daughter, when I told her of our topic and my difficulty with it, said, “Tell them about how you’re never really a whole person if you remain silent, because there’s always that one little piece inside you that wants to be spoken out, and if you keep ignoring it, it gets madder and madder and hotter and hotter, and if you don’t speak it out one day it will just up and punch you in the mouth from the inside.”







¶ 9
In the cause of silence, each of us draws the face of her own fear – fear of contempt, of censure, or some judgment, or recognition, of challenge, of annihilation. But most of all, I think, we fear the visibility without which we cannot truly live. Within this country where racial difference creates a constant, if unspoken, distortion of vision, Black women have on one hand always been highly visible, and so, on the other hand, have been rendered invisible through the depersonalization of racism. Even within the women’s movement, we have had to fight, and still do, for that very visibility which also renders us most vulnerable, our Blackness. For to survive in the mouth of this dragon we call america, we have had to learn this first and most vital lesson – that we were never meant to survive. Not as human beings. And neither were most of you here today, Black or not. And that visibility which makes us most vulnerable is that which also is the source of our greatest strength. Because the machine will try to grind you into dust anyway, whether or not we speak. We can sit in our corners mute forever while our sisters and our selves are wasted, while our children are distorted and destroyed, while our earth is poisoned; we can sit in our safe corners mute as bottles, and we will still be no less afraid.






¶ 10
In my house this year we are celebrating the feast of K wanza, the African-american festival of harvest which begins the day after Christmas and lasts for seven days. There are seven principles of Kwanza, one for each day. The first principle is Umoja, which means unity, the decision to strive for and maintain uni-ty in self and community. The principle for yesterday, the sec-ond day, was Kujichagulia – self-determination – the decision to define ourselves, name ourselves, and speak for ourselves, in-stead of being defined and spoken for by others. Today is the third day of K wanza, and the principle for today is Ujima – col-lective work and responsibility – the decision to build and maintain ourselves and our communities together and to recognize and solve our problems together.







¶ 11
Each of us is here now because in one way or another we share a commitment to language and to the power of language, and to the reclaiming of that language which has been made to work against us. In the transformation of silence into language and action, it is vitally necessary for each one of us to establish or examine her function in that transformation and to recognize her role as vital within that transformation.
For those of us who write, it is necessary to scrutinize not only the truth of what we speak, but the truth of that language by which we speak it. For others, it is to share and spread also those words that are meaningful to us. But primarily for us all, it is necessary to teach by living and speaking those truths which we believe and know beyond understanding. Because in this way alone we can survive, by taking part in a process of life that is creative and continuing, that is growth.




¶ 12
And it is never without fear – of visibility, of the harsh light of scrutiny and perhaps judgment, of pain, of death. But we have lived through all of those already, in silence, except death.





¶ 13
And I remind myself all the time now that ifI were to have been born mute, or had maintained an oath of silence my whole life long for safety, I would still have suffered, and I would still die. It is very good for establishing perspective.




¶ 14
And where the words of women are crying to be heard, we must each of us recognize our responsibility to seek those words out, to read them and share them and examine them in their pertinence to our lives. That we not hide behind the mockeries of separations that have been imposed upon us and which so often we accept as our own. For instance, “I can’t possibly teach Black women’s writing – their experience is so different from mine.” Yet how many years have you spent teaching Plato and Shakespeare and Proust? Or another, “She’s a white woman and what could she possibly have to say to me?” Or, “She’s a lesbian, what would my husband say, or my chairman?” Or again, “This woman writes of her sons and I have no children.” And all the other endless ways in which we rob ourselves of ourselves and each other.






¶ 15
We can learn to work and speak when we are afraid in the same way we have learned to work and speak when we are tired. For we have been socialized to respect fear more than our own needs for language and definition, and while we wait in silence for that final luxury of fearlessness, the weight of that silence will choke us.
The fact that we are here and that I speak these words is an at-tempt to break that silence and bridge some of those differences between us, for it is not difference which immobilizes us, but silence. And there are so many silences to be broken.
this isn't on Audre Lorde's HelloPoetry page, and it's not poetry, but it certainly is. This was the 3rd speech I recalled in full from memory in my Public Speaking 101 class, my second semester back at school ...

and I just remember shivering as I read the words Black and Lesbian. I remember shivering trying to imagine working well tired or afraid... but I was working while tired and afraid. Since then her  words have inspired me


to try to find all the words I do not have. And considering the number of apparently non linguistic  thoughts I have; there are so so so so many to find.
max Apr 13
smart, popular boys in third grade,
with their stupid khakis
and dumb sweatshirts.
i didnt want their popularity,
i wanted to be a boy.
a smart boy with stupid khakis
and a dumb sweatshirt

the kind, pretty girls in fourth grade
their pretty hair
and painted nails
i didnt want to be a pretty girl like them
i admired them
but i was too young,
and it was too wrong

it was wrong to want to be a boy,
to want to love a girl,
want to be a smart boy
with pretty hair
and painted nails

i should've been the perfect daughter,
but im a smart boy
with pretty hair
and painted nails.
havent posted in ages but i wrote this a couple months ago <3
Jace Apr 3
Gender was a stupid creation

Who decided just because I have, well...
Certain bits
That it means I should wear a skirt?
Or a dress?
I mean what does it matter?
Why aren’t we just all the same?
I don’t want to choose
Because getting it wrong
Means doing again...
Marching the streets
Holding my flag
With my boyfriend
Holding my hand
Feeling so at home
Feeling I belong
Crying happy tears
Surrounded by people
Just like me
Not feeling judged
Feeling in place
I finally understood who I was
It felt so right
Happy faces all around
Celebrating who we are
How we were born
Different but perfect
Just the way we are
No matter who we love
This is about my experience at London Pride in 2019. Ive never felt so at home.
felixmae Nov 2020
she reminded me of pennies
worthless
two faced
and in everybody's pants
Cheyenne Hobbs Oct 2020
L is for love is love. We all deserve love.
G is for greatness! We stand up for our greatness.
B is for both! We can choose both!
T is for touch. We touch our souls, and know who we are.
Q is for queens and kings, and that place in between.
I is for icons. We are very important.
A is acceptance, which we fight for!
+ is for many more, there is no end.
Sh Sep 2020
Denial,
such a human emotion.

So quick am I to turn my back,
to close my eyes against the truth

So adamant that it must be wrong

it must

For if I am right I would have to face the consequences of something that is out of my control.


If denial is my first instinct, to claw my way out of the quicksand

then why,

when I came out,

did I never except denial from you?
Sh Sep 2020
They say we are like beasts in the night;

Senseless and wild.
Menacing fangs, ready to devour the world.



In truth, we are like wolves;

Untamed with teeth to rip apart all who dares threaten our packs.

With furs to cuddle the biting cold away, sharp ears and eyes to pick up on the first signs of danger.



In truth, we are like cats;

Finding our home back from the streets,

Or simply knowing how to get away from the hand that feeds nothing but pain.



In truth, we are like rats;

Blamed for a disease we do not have,

Deemed filthy and wretched by all who refuse know us.



In truth, we are like crows;

Beloved by the outcasts,

Flock together into groups, loyal with a love that can bring gods down.



In truth, we are like mint;

Impossible to get rid of, no matter how many of us you pluck out of this earth.

Persistent and all the more lovely for it.



You say we are like seeds planted in pots;

Destined to settle down the way the gardeners dictated, all other possible futures disregarded.



In truth, we are like the moon;

the phases are nothing but your refusal to see as us a whole.
Jamie Frederick Aug 2020
A mask that everyone could see
Something to hide behind
A “shield” for me

It stung like needles
Burned like a brand
This mask placed by a hollow hand

I could never be rid of it
Never just be free
For what would my family think of me

It took a push from someone
A helpful hand
To finally remove that burning brand

They helped me take off the mask
Saw what was inside
And accepted me as I sat there and cried

They gave me a space
A place to be free
Until I was able to finally be me

I went to see my family
Without the mask, in open air
I steeled myself to be prepared


But instead of yelling
Of bitter frost
I found that my hope was not lost

I met with acceptance
Knowing care
A hearth’s warmth and gentle air

One day I left the mask behind
Not just for that day, but for all time
The burning brand, the stinging mark
Left in that closet in the dark
I wrote this about my experience coming out as well as the dysphoria I experienced (and still do experience). I've been out for a few years now, but I wanted to write this. This is my first published poem on here. I hope that you all enjoy.
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