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Ben K Ellis Dec 2020
Don't give the Uber driver the address of that gay bar.  
Always stop a block away, because
Ahmed from the other night told you that where you were going was Haram and that in his country you’d be in jail or dead,
and
Christopher from the other other night told you that you should call on the Lord,
repent and baptise yourself away from sin.
So, I
baptise myself under the sweat of strangers in a bathhouse,
follow the ritual dances of men and women and genderqueer folks on a dancefloor moving to the rhythm of the same heartbeat,
as long as we have a heartbeat.
Finding myself in the smile of strangers sharing a common hope of freedom and joy, and
a common fear and terror that someone will come in with a gun and shoot
all 49 of us
Orlando.

I’ve not been okay since Orlando.
And yet people have been in my mentions about how 49 queer folks could’ve lived if they had had guns with them,
which is to say how they could’ve prevented their own deaths,
which is to say how they could've lived if they hadn't been
so out, and
so proud, and
so queer, and
worst of all
alive,
which is to say how they would've lived if they hadn't lived.
Which is to say how they deserved to die.

My social media stream is constant with people explaining why every dead queer person deserved to die, and how every black person was just asking for it.
Like, why didn't he try self-defence against those bullets?
Why was he out buying tea and skittles at night, who buys tea and skittles at night?
Like, why was she driving anyway?
Why did he pull out his wallet when the cop said “licence and registration”?
Why was he trans in public?
Why does a trans woman want to use a public restroom?
Why were they queer in public?
Why was he black in public?
Why was she black in public?
Why do you people still think that you’re free in the land of the free?

This is the season of unseasoned racism.
People will find a reason for bigotry. So,
take care of yourself.
Step out and take a breath.
Log out if it helps. See,
you're supernatural. When you're drowning you can still breathe underwater. So, you might as well turn water into wine while you're at it.
Turn tears into Hennessy.
Turn soul-crippling blues into blues you can actually dance to.
Turn sorrow into poetry.
I know sometimes it’s hard to tell
if you’re depressed or just alive in 2020.
Aaron Combs Jun 2020
This, this song I made you, let it pierce your heart,
like the silver moon earrings, close your eyes,

Let me hold you on high.
Let me hold you on high.

Like the Kansas fields that outnumber the stars,
let's walk on the wheat fields of gold, for even
if I can't forgive you, my heart will freely love you.

Over and over,

like red Georgia Peaches,  like Florida Beaches,
wave after wave, I’ll show you a new song,
So we can be one again,  let it all sweep you away.  
For the diamonds at dusk, are waiting for us.

For like the Chicago sunrise, let the power of it's sunrise,
sing you back to life, until you are alive and washed by dreams.

Embrace me, hold on, like a California dream, pretend it's just me,
like the ring on your finger, let this be,
let this be, a time between you and me.

For if you harden your heart, lets go back to one,
let me be like your silver moon earrings,

let me hold you on high.
let me hold you on high.
Alex Potter Feb 2017
I saw the news of that night,
I saw the people cower in fright,
I felt their love fall to the ground,
I knew the fear would spread around,
Down in the place called Orlando

The outed, the loved, the brave,
The ones in closets, dark like a cave,
The lonely, the lovely,
The ones like dogs stomping muddily,
Down in dear old Orlando.

No one had expected what came next,
It was something like text,
You read from a book,
Now don't ever look,
Down in Orlando.

What was once a place,
A very special space,
Space for those different than him,
He thought they were a sin,
Now it's no more in Orlando.

All they wanted was love,
But their souls flew like a dove,
No more of their musical,
Wonderful, beautiful,
Lives in Orlando.

To all those,
Who rose,
To the next place,
I give you good grace.
I am sorry for all that's been done,
I know sometimes life hasn't been fun,
But you didn't deserve,
To be served,
The final, the last,
Place. I'm sad that you passed,
Into death.
I know this was a while ago, but after the Pulse shooting in Orlando, I wrote this poem, and only just found out about Hello Poetry, so thought that it was the best place to post something like this. I hope you like it!
Febronia Ventura Jun 2016
I knew about you
because of the news

You were 2-yrs old
It was a happy day
Was supposed to be
A wonderful Disney trip

I couldn't stop thinking
I just couldn't

I felt so bad
I felt so much pain

Your body grabbed
by an animal
Your parents crying
the World praying

Why?
Why God?
I know I shouldn't ask you

The World is still praying
for the parents who lost a child

I'm trying to accept this lost

I didn't know you

But it bothers me

You were 2-yrs old.
"Some say love, it is a river"
How the tears flowed that night,
How the rain fell and wiped our cheeks,
How the wind caught our hair and blew in our faces,
How we cried.

"That drowns a tender reed"
How many fell that day,
How young, how old,
How free of fear until too late,
How quickly gone.

"Some say love, it is a razor"
How deep it cut so fast,
How much pain consumed us,
How the dark spilled into the streets,
How long will it last?

"That leaves your soul to bleed"
How to move on,
How none of us knew where to look,
How to smile again, or if we should,
How empty we were.

"Some say love, it is a hunger"
How it burned, the anger,
How the passion grew strong,
How a single raging desire filled us,
How it took over.

"An endless aching need"
How we stood together,
How we all dreamed and longed for a future,
How it is no longer a wish, but a necessity,
How it sits with us.

"I say love, it is a flower"
How as one we somehow felt better,
How those candles pierced the shadows,
How we joined hands and held tight,
How we wouldn't fall.

"And you its only seed"*
How the seeds were sown,
How their lives were lost,
How it must not happen again,
How death does not end them,
How one day those seeds will bloom,
And those flowers will not be laid by candles.
Dornish Bastard Jun 2016
Tragedy seems unreal,
Like a foreign movie.
I'm only a spectator
Front row for reality.
I see the shooter, the victims.
A hundred hired to act.
Fake blood paints pavements.
The bullets are blanks.

*But the bullets pierce
And the blood is warm.
A hundred targets are found.
Few to recover from harm.
There won't be a 'cut!'
No take four or take five.
This is no movie.
A shot takes a life.
I don't know what to say.
Riel Adriane Jun 2016
Nothing seems to be okay.
When I read the newspapers,
An imbecile killed gays.
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