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Arlen Mar 9
Mother told me I was a girl
In the clothes, she bought me to wear
Mother told me I was a girl
In the way she did my hair

Mother told me I was a girl
Because society told her so
Mother told me I was a girl
Because trans people weren't shown

Society told me I was a girl
And said that's all I could be
Society told me I was a girl
But that doesn't feel like me

Society told me I was a girl
That anything else would be a lie
Society told me I was a girl
And I felt a part of me die

Jamie Raines showed me
That I could be a man
Jamie Raines showed me
I'm not too hard to understand

Jamie Raines showed me
Something I'd buried deep within
Jamie Raines showed me
My existence isn't sin

The trans* people before me
Showed me I could exist
The trans* people before me
Showed me that not everyone is cis

The trans* people before me
I owe so very much
The trans* people before me
They have been my crutch
1 month on testosterone, life is looking up :)
Arlen Mar 7
I don't want the kind of masculinity
That drives dads to hide their tears
That tells little boys it is wrong
To express their fears

I don't want the kind of masculinity
That says expressing emotions is wrong
I want to be the kind of man
That knows expressing emotions is strong

I don't want the kind of masculinity
That says there is only one kind of man
We can come in all shapes and sizes
Why is that so hard to understand?

I don't want the kind of masculinity
That pushes me aside
Even if I was born different then some others
I know who I am inside
the brevity of a singular breath,
one that is full of peace,
such a rare glimpse but
if you look at his face, at the right time,
you might just see him smile.

then, much like an old spruce cello,
descending in suspense,
that smile  -evaporates-, and the
quick "bliss" is no more.

oh how old and wise is this cello i play,
if only it was genuinely surprised by the
intensity of such
-hair raising horror-
it faces in its composure, daily.

"but it simply ain't",
as Bukowski would drunkenly say,
and his quivering cigarette would rightfully echo
through the halls of this unholy Cathedral.  

"put me the **** down already, Charles", it echoes.

"no,
i refuse
to let go of my
identity...

...why would i let go of all

-i feel-

is left?"

he (i) is either a man,
or on the road to understanding
what this even means really...

...maybe he's halfway there...

regardless, he now understands,
he must accept
"reasons" to smile won't come often,
and one is subject to the tug of war of life,
of society,
of women,
of his children,
of his forgetful mother,
of his vices,
his hair raising horrors,
the torment,
of his absent father.

to continue is to face those suspenseful

-crescendos-

of life, with
"a ******* smile on your face",
as Bukowski would say,

no matter
-what-
he's been through, or
-how-
-deeply-
he
-feels-

...

-melancholicreator
transferred and added on from paper on a very tough night that required lots of crying to get anywhere creatively, reflects my current struggles/state of mind.

enjoy.
What is it that signifies that paradise yonder
In view but always out of reach?

I've grown so spoilt from love, I fall into being a child, I need to change
I've known it for years but never had to
Until I finally saw your face
I love you like you will never know

I was so lost without you, and I can
Strife and struggle for a reason now
Because I can't wait to be your man
Walking down the aisle and waiting
However long it takes for you for I know I'll wait assured,
Knowing if I'm ever gone too long you'll make it your life mission to find me
And when I see you again it doesn't matter who falls into who's arms first
I'm never letting you go
And every day onwards
I'm going to be your man.
And you'll never have to fret

I'm going to be your man.
And you'll never have to cry

I'm going to be your man.
And you'll never have to fear

I'm going to be your man.
And you'll never have to fight

I'm going to be your man.
And I'll never be weak again

I'm going to stay your man.
1 out of a hundred 2/4
Malia Jan 12
We are
Different fingers
Of the very same hand.
We are
Born pure,
Then forgotten.
I am the flowers
And the river.
Mother Nature—
What can I give her?
She is all I cannot be.
She is all I once was.
The children of men
Have twisted her personage
Until her portrait no longer
Is recognizable.
The children of men
Have twisted themselves—
Trains, cars, factories!
Nothing but awful galleries
Of memories, a eulogy
For the truth, the natural way.
And yet, it all runs through us.
Like our blood, and the breeze
And the sunlight’s dappled stream,
Like a rope, but not a chain,
Sustenance, our meat and grain.
It is One, and we are It.
We are One, and separate.
Whenever given the option, I always choose doing poetry for school projects :p
Mark Wanless Jan 6
if a good man
goes on a journey
will he arrive there
Qweyku Dec 2023
The beauty of a snowflake is
seed with impurity.
A dust atom the foundation
of its crystallisation.

An air of heaven meeting earth,
a divine tango of melting gracefulness;
watering this cold cursed Earth

© Qwey.ku 2023
Science observes all snowflakes are marked with the number six. And like Adam are formed from dust.
Josephine Wild Dec 2023
Mar
The dolphins display
splashing pepper spray.

Marred marine
toxic plastics
flow through
the Gulf Stream
and blood streams
of Fish, Bird, and Man.

None safe in water.

None safe
on land.
Just came up with on a whim while looking at sketches of dolphins that I drew a while back.
ZACK GRAM Nov 2023
God talks to me
God says his word is bond

Flashing in and out of life
Am i awake or asleep?
  
Gods word
Has me trapped between two worlds
Its so beautiful on both sides

But
Ours i lose
The other i win

I wake up gasping for air
Shocked shook an out of breath

**** another day

I wish my dreams were true
Whats God waiting for?
Gods got so much to show
Gods got so much to share
Speak
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