Though a wimpy, tiny, and puny
(smaller than a breadbox) Ogre
whereat my portable minuscule
fingerhut size adobe abode ex
posed to Strunk and White raw
grammatical elements of style,

I counted Flip (Wilsonian) view,
to camouflage myself anytime
and anywhere as significant add
vantages. The obvious down side
(i.e. severe limitations to pull off

major coup) forced me to axe
paunches pilot while taking a chopper
if I van nah miniaturize daring deed
(done dirt cheap) reconfigured,

retouched, recorded by Das scribe
named Magnum Opus. Indeed,
this chance to golong (equivalent
of Olympic gold) foretold peering
into granule size barren crystal ball.
Preliminary steps undertaken

to pull off impossible mission;
mo' difficult than a blind man
taking eighty steps to Honah
infiltrating 70+ shades of gray area

prime Donald Trump real estate.
A priority prevailed to act on
the QT (q-tip) lest cover get blown,
and suspicious communique encrypted
to gal lobe trotting henchmen.
Urgency spurred daring deed,
cuz targeted subject in question

(majority population counted
as debouched, delirious, and
demonstrably dangerous
demagogue, in short a "FAKE"
president! Security details
(like stray cats on the prowl),

could sniff out ploy to re
program depraved, deranged,
and detached supposed Master
at helm. His audacity, effrontery,
and isolationist iffy ideology
placed him squarely as half baked
cookie monstrosity against

United States Commander in Chief.
First order of business necessitated
tranquilizing this doughty, haughty
enemy of the Lumpenproletariat!

Renown chemist friends of mine
(actually War tin buddies) alias
Diet Coke and/or Diet Pepsi
secured an ampule Taj Mahal

~ circa 1631vintage. One ampule
viz pill could knock out a giant –
sans, Jack and the beanstalk fame.
No ifs, and or bots, the secret
got pulled off without spilling

figurative (jelly) beans. Once
inside auditory labyrinth, I
immediately noticed striking
deus ex machina pussy riot ting
resemblance to microscopic cave.
A thick baad ass sieve sludge
of cerumen sis tah

(waxy substance) deaf finitely
posed an initial dilemma,
which audio slave solution
entailed collaboration to build
a toothpick fence. Pensiveness

unexpectedly found subject
reflexively scratching, poking,
and jabbing inadvertently
finding me toward ground zero.
buttons will still get sewn
create an other image
pretend it's me
working out
better than and me

give me an d
an effort

gone when im gone

this time he think
we wont be back
Phoenix Jan 24
For you, it’s a simple question.
You can just say,
“Obviously, I’m a girl.”
“Duh, I’m a boy”
But for me,
It’s a question that burns
Through my mind.
It’s like an identity quiz
Where all the answers are wrong,
No matter how much you decide
To change them.

I’m twelve years old.
They’ve just handed me a bright white paper.
Are you a boy or a girl?
That’s the question they ask on every evaluation sheet.
Are you a boy or a girl?
I can only sit there,
Pencil tapping nervously against the table.
I stare at those two white boxes.
Am I a boy or a girl?
What is so wrong with my mind,
That I am not able to choose one?

I’m five years old,
The teacher asks us to make the flower our favorite color.
Pink or blue?
I don’t want to choose,
So I split the flower in the middle
One half pink
One half blue.
The teacher comes and says
“At least you tried.”
What does that mean?
I put effort into
coloring inside the lines
And making it
And all she can say is
“At least you tried.”
Am I only allowed to choose

I’m eleven years old.
I’m looking through my drawer,
Picking out clothes to wear.
The black shirt
Or the white one?
They both look nice with the pants I’ve chosen.
I know I can’t wear both,
Because only one shirt can fit on my body.
Only one.
I hastily pick the white shirt,
Only to realize
They didn’t match as well as I thought they had.

I’m twelve years old,
Still staring at that sheet.
Am I a boy or a girl?
I searched hard,
Only to find
There’s not a single thing that’s wrong
With my mind.

What makes me a girl?
Is it my hair,
Or my face,
Or the way I love to paint and make pottery?
Or maybe it’s the way all my friends are girls.
The way I love painting nails.

What makes me a boy?
Is it the way I refuse to wear a dress or skirt,
Or the way you can always find me practicing archery
In the hot summer?
The way I hate pink.
How I always play soccer and basketball.

Black or white?
Fight or flight?
Pink or blue?
Boy or girl
Boy or girl,
Boy or girl?
Why not both?
So I wrote this a few years ago, when I was still questioning my gender. Now I've realized I'm a boy so this poem doesn't really apply to me anymore. This poem is dedicated to my past self, and all the non-binary/ gender questioning kids still trying to find their place in the world.

P.S. It's supposed to be a spoken word poem
Lin Dec 2017
Here’s to a not-so-movie life
Where everything seems to take a bite
Here’s to a not-so-movie life
Where there seems to be no light
Oh, here’s to a not-so-movie life
Where, sometimes, you want to die
Just to get away from this life
My mom is obsessed with HomeMart movies and I couldn’t help but compare it to real life.
I tend to hum a little tune every time I read it.
Luces de neon
reflejadas en las
gotas del retrovisor

he salido a cazar
he salido de mi jaula
hoy decidí no volver,
no volver a mi cama.

Luces de neon
iluminan el asfalto
son las gotas
que chocan en la ventana.

El caballo negro relincha
y mi alma se ve verde, azul
y morado.
Lucy Nov 2017
I’m high then suddenly low
I wish to die before I grow old
Not wanting to burden the ones around me
Rather be sad and forever lonely
If that’s the case
I’m a waste of space
The constant disappointment in my mothers eyes
The slips of blatant lies  
Depressed feelings is what I’ve kept
I’m destroying myself until there’s nothing left
My stomach stays in knots
I’m a movie without a plot
I’m the tree without the branches
Was never gifted second chances
Made promises I was forced to keep
I’m only alive when I’m asleep
So these are my last words ever to be said
The secrets I place inside my head
Zero Nine Nov 2017
I was a trap the last time they looked.
They saw me now, they saw me, saw I as I is now
I wasn't a trap last time I looked.
I saw me then, I saw me, saw I as I ever
Last I checked, I wouldn't get
after your sacred sex -- it's cute that you're afraid.
Last I checked, I wouldn't get
after your bible sex -- not even were I paid!

Though, that was then, and now is here.
Those aspirations, declare them dead.
Those old roads ended, I left for highways.
Those highways laid pink and blue lines.
Those definitions left me seeing red.

Last I checked, I wouldn't get
after your bible sex -- not even were I paid!

But, if you offered it, that would be a different story.
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