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Janal Rajput Feb 4
I feel like the meaning of Pride has become misconstrued,
Because we live in a time of grindr and cheap *****,
But behind the glitz and glam of the sparkling Drag Queens,
Behind the parade and the rainbow flags and skin-tight jeans
Is a community that faces prejudice and violent hostility,
Pride is for every one of us that was once drowned in shame,
By the gender they loved or pronouns they chose to claim,
Pride is for those still drowning the depths of self-hatred
Perpetuated by a society that sees us as something unsavoury,
Under the reuse of Divine Intervention to make us degraded,
Pride is for remembering the heroes that died for our rights,
For Marsha. P Johnson who cast the first stone against hate and spite,
Pride is for building on the foundations of our queer forefathers,
To continue fighting for our right to love unapologetically, until we
Have equality for every LGBT person in every God ****** country
So that those of us living a lie, in façade of synthetic love and lies
Can stand with us, no longer afraid to be who they were meant to be
Pride is for those left vicious scars from exposing who you truly were
For those that have lost friends, family and the acceptance of society,
Pride is for those who had the strength to stand against the tide of bigotry,
For those who made a beacon of love and acceptance in a storm of intolerance
For those on the front-lines in Human Rights and discrimination court cases,
So when you go to your nearest Pride, remember that you do not have to hide,
Because you are surrounded by those who love, appreciate and accept you
That the spirit of past Queer people stand united with you, be obnoxious and loud
Cause if its one thing LGBT people have a right to be, it is to be unequivocally Proud.
JW Feb 3
you had wondered what it felt like
the hair, it looked liked wire

what was underneath made you question
everything you were, all you had ever been

never before had you met anybody
quite so ordinary yet so all-consuming

you ran your fingers through it
the wire felt like coming home
they cut their hair shortly after i wrote this
lied to by heavy hands
grown rough in forests
brilliant and expecting
flowers, red and seizing
the belief of something
not yet broken

a body blooms and asks
of the deception
only once

like fire, final

a disease made of
will and a suffering
that stings when
it should steep

tomorrow I call
and speak of poets
grasping at birds
courtesy of fridge magnets
Sh Jan 20
Mother,

No metaphor can describe what I'm feeling.

No bird longing for freedom nor the flower growing in a rotting land will suffice.


You don't need to show your shame in sharp words,

your dismissal cuts deep enough.


I told you who I am and you erased it like it was written on a white board,

black dust sticking to your fingers.


My voice, echoing on deaf ears.

The walls, stronger than me.

Better listeners then you.


I imagine tearing off my flags from the closet door.

Ripping then to shreds then sobbing over their loss.


I hang them there to remind myself to be strong.

How weak is it then, that one word from you left me staring at them in silence.

A dull pain replacing the thumping of my heart.


How weak is it then, that this poem, which will never reach you,
left me crying hot, dripping tears,

the first rain of the season.


You told me you accept me, a contract with white words written between the lines.

You told me you don't mind, I didn't take you for a liar.

You hugged me and I believed everything was fine.

I still do, in the silence between rain drops.


Did you know that a scoff can leave purple green bruises?

Healing slowly and alone.


You must know that words leave scars,

even if they are being said absently with the wave of your hand.

Perhaps especially so.


I told you who I am and your first reaction was to tell me I'll grow out of if,
as if I had discovered myself yesterday.

I explained and your second reaction was to treat it like an ideology,
as if it was ever a choice for me in the first place,
something to be learned.


You refused to listen further, I doubt that you've ever started to.


You didn't understand my fascination with wings taking flight before I told you.

You still hadn't connected the dots, the shackles of ignorance at my feet.


We are the flower.
Your behavior- the rotting land.

The growth- feet firmly on the ground, wings curled around my body, twitching to be let out.


I wonder, deep at night, if I will ever find the right metaphor.

I know that I won't.
I accidently deleted it in an attempt to figure out why I have it posted twice so here it is again- originally posted on December 19, 2019
Andrew Watson Jan 15
I breathe dust and think fire
my mind sizzles with spirit
I write with my left hand and see with both eyes
but that doesn’t matter.

thoughts without thought
diffuse like poisonous gas
from the mouth of the man
his audience inhale malefic fumes

“Homosexuality is against the will of mother nature” he hisses
yet she is nowhere to be seen.
when rain falls to the concrete
I know
she cries like the rest of us

I am trapped in his freedom
his right to speak as he likes
takes away my right
to exist.
Only silence remains.

I will not be reduced
to a title
a statistic
a fixture of mindless rhetoric

yet his words continue
screeching darkness in my ears
he doesn’t know love
but he’ll do all that he can
to strip it from others

when his daughter sobs into her pillow
and drips her scarlet shame on the white bathroom tiles -
He’ll learn.
until then his forked tongue will flick venom in the air
the narrow tunnel of his mind unmined

I long for the day
people think before they say:
I am not
homophobic
but
Kodi Jacobs Jan 13
i want to shave my legs, i want to be a girl again
i want to be like you, i want to be feminine
i want to be pretty, i want to wear pink
i want to pluck my eyebrows, i want to wear a dress

i want to paint my nails, i want to wear lipstick
i want to have the softest skin, i want to wear the pinkest blush

i want to write queer poetry, i want to write love songs
i want to be gay, i want to be a lesbian
i want to write about your *****
i want to write about my lack of a *****

i want to wear cute glasses — i have cute glasses
i want my hair to fall down to my lower back
i want to tuck it behind my ears
i want to put it in pigtails, i want to wear it in a scrunchie

i want to be a feminist
i want to be an intersectional feminist
i want to be an angry feminist

i don’t want to suffer under patriarchy
i don’t want to be told to be quiet a man is talking
i don’t want to be told to smile
i don’t want to be stared at with beady eyes
i don’t want to be *****
i don’t want to feel unsafe

i want to feel free, i want to be me
i want to be published
i want to win poetry prizes
i want to show trans girls that we can do anything
Sh Jan 12
There was solace in the quiet,
before you opened your mouth

And proved me wrong.

Like a hawk in a hunt, a fresh guard,
I held into my walls.

Surely they will accept me.
Surly they won't.
Black and white together, mixing into gray in a never ending spiral.

Long after you knew and hugged me a warm reassurance,
I told you, yet again, I have never been attracted to a man and probably never will

And you shot the bird out of the sky with your words of,
Never say never.
I'm getting tired of this "we say we support you but still hope you'll become straight" thing my parents are doing so here's yet another vent poem
Sav Jan 8
A woman came in
and read me like a book.

Taking in each piece
of ink,
of scar,
of flesh,

that is stained.

She read me like a sapphic poem,
dissecting the inner meaning of;

each line,
each dollop,
each stroke.

She looked at me as if I were sheet music,

Deciphering
the vibrato,
the crescendos.

I bask in this newfound admiration.

Allowing her to peer into my soul,
and make sense of the marks
on my skin.
Loving her, they say,
Is sin.
A sin that'll pull you straight to hell from the weight of it.
'look to God'
They say
And point to words of man.
'are fleeting lusts worth damning gambled souls?'

So I looked at God, my God.

My God, who tends a garden.
My God whose light is all the sun
My little leaves could ever need.
My God who steered the wind
To wrap a younger lonely girl in hugs.
My God who fills the sails of ships
My God who cares, and always has
My God who calls us children
My God who tends
With water instead of brimstone
And with rescuing palms
Not uncaring heels of boots.

I look at my God
And I look at my love.
And I say,
I'll take those odds.
Birdcaller Jan 3
pour the gold of your heart over mine,
shining rivulets filling up the cracks
left by other burdens
of another time

a trade:
id offer you warmth
and the iron in my blood
to keep you strong through it all
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