Catch a calling pigeon, Tell him what you really think. Express your deepest statements To the rim of your last drink. 'Cause society will tell you That your voice is not worth hearing, As they cast their vicious judgments, With their pompous faces leering.
Release your thoughts into the silent night, Or share them on a small poetry site. Intellectual conformity is promised: We learned to lie without being dishonest.
How does one share an opinion that isn't held by either the majority or the loud minority?
“Who’s the lucky guy?” someone asks “Their name’s Bea,” I reply “I support that,” they hesitate “You are so brave.” they add
I never saw their lips as a political statement Nor did I think holding hands in the front seat while a friend is puking by the side of the road Was some kind of revolution
How romantic is it That our story will be etched Not in some Neruda poetry book But a professor’s first textbook Or a college student’s 2 am essay
When I said I was in love You thought it meant I was hungry Not for touch or for pleasure But for justice and freedom I didn’t know that When I run my fingers down her neck It would be tied to a long Twitter thread
I never saw my love as a battleground A metaphysical exploration of sexuality What’s Marxist about the way their eyes disappear when they smile? What’s so intersectional about Our entanglement at the back seat Or our hands holding in front
I never thought I would be so brave At my most fragile state So political In my most dumbstruck ways So woke When I’m asleep in her embrace
What it feels like to be in a queer relationship. Your whole relationship becomes a political discussion. And while I love a discussion, sometimes I just want to love.
For as long as I can remember, the women of my family have lived in hunger like hulking tigers in a cramped cage. Love is quickly used up, its quality fading from golden light into grainy shadows flicked haphazardly across God’s great canvas. After Love departs, nothing remains but the splinters where we have torn away limbs and dug holes in search of that light again, the flecks of gold streaked through our hair, the ones that know better than revisit our homes. When we give up, we sit in our drab backyards to watch the sun sink over a police state masquerading as the ultimate state of grace. We tuck our freedoms into bed, kiss our sacred rights goodnight in case we never get the chance to lead by the hand into the light of day, and sneak back down to the kitchen for one last snack, maybe two. Maybe more, maybe our mouths wait in secret to transform into one bottomless pit as we reach with every breath we take for something we have always known and long since learned we’ll never be able to grasp in our earthly fingers.
Thank you for reading. If you liked this poem, you'll probably like these: https://briannarduffin.medium.com/the-back-of-my-hand-f1922dde51f9
Too young to have an opinion Yet not too young to know the truth Too young to know their orientation Yet not too young to know its not a phase Too young to experience racism Yet not too young to have slurs tossed at your face like casual talk
Too young to understand global warming Yet not too young to negatively affected by pollution Too young to understand politics Yet not too young experience the effects of an incompetent president Too young to dress like that Yet not too young to be sent home because the boys are distracted by your shoulders
Too young to experience real pain Yet not too young to be six feet under because of it This poem was written by someone who knows what it feels like to be "too young" You're never too young to make a difference A change in this unvarying world might be just what it needs
This is the second poem I've ever written, so let me know if you like it.
Just because your team ***** this year, Doesn’t mean you’ll shift your support, You’ll defend them as you would yourself, As though your life depends on the opinion.
It's like the turning of a faucet If you stay in the hot too long you'll boil your hand If you stay in the cold you'll freeze Are you going to move before you get punished Or are you going to stick with your team?
Justified in your opinion As you won the game, You’ll shoot the opposition down Claiming “fake news” as a bleat That only adds irony To your flock of sheep.
But don’t get me wrong: The other side bleats just as loud, With the wavering cries And nights spent in paranoia, After calling out at the other side, You’re just as bad.
Address your strengths together, Understand each other’s weaknesses And prejudices to stop the fire from spreading, Because spending every four years undoing What the other side has done Leads on a winding path to nowhere.
It's like the turning of a faucet, I said, A faucet of denying that both sides Have gone much too far. Turn on the other side, To combine both, Or we’ll only ever exist in fire-hot or freezing-cold.