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Saige May 2021
noun
the sampling of amniotic fluid using a hollow needle inserted into the ******, to screen for developmental abnormalities in a fetus.

...

Not everything about you
is on that little screen; 
not in your number of chromosomes,
not in your misshapen genes. 

Yet everyone talks about you,
as if they know you:
"impaired cognitive abilities"...
"50% chance of being stillborn"...
"impacts the family unit"...

Your life and capacity for love
will never be defined by your DNA,
but rather by your smile and
your laughter and 
your heart
and
and
and
...

In short, my love, 
you cannot be defined by what is missing
but rather by what you can
and will be when you arrive 
in all your humanity
Orion Rosemary May 2021
I'm just trying to live my life
Like any other human being
I get on the bus, sit on the guys side
I go through my day-to-day

I get called down to the office
I'm told I have to sit on the girls side because I'm in the system as a girl
I tell him I'm not a girl and the heteronormative system is ridiculous
I didn't do anything wrong and sit by myself anyways

He says he will see what he can do
In the hallway not long after, after school ends, going down stairs
I group of kids scream near my ears
I mumble to myself and they touch my head

I said stop
They didn't stop
I turned around
And for the first time in my life I lower myself to violence
And punch one in the leg

I break down
I'm lucky to work with such wonderful people in theatre
I just want to live my life
I just want to be left and not harassed

Im told I can sit on the boys side
I have to sit alone
I can only sit in the front or back
I have to tell the stranger next to me he can't sit there

I want to tell him why
I don't want to out myself
I have to give up the ounce of validation of being treated like a normal guy on the bus by the other guys, who are unafraid to get in trouble for sitting with me cause they don't know what I am or care

I wish...
I wish I was born right just like he and every other guy on the bus

But if I was I would not be me.

I could not understand my own struggles
Or sympathize so much with others

I could not learn and adapt the way I do now
Could not have taught myself to be brave in the same way I am

I could not have the experience of having kids with my spouse the way I want to

I would not have needed to stand up for my rights or that of others

I would not have addresssed my lack of understanding and my internalized transphobia

I am stronger for who and what I am.
My gestalt.
For learning to come to terms with the harsh truths of what I am to the world.

If that wish came true, I would not be me. I would not be
Orion.
An improv prompt from my theatre teacher/director. My group decided to do a funny skit but I wanted to answer it in a heartfelt way on my own separately.
Twalib Mushi Apr 2021
I take my pen
As i want to stand still
Applaud their pain
Everything is against their will
For their lives they had a plan.

Fearless
Being separated from their family
Look
how they're starving
Do they deserve?
Look
how they're suffocating
This isn't correct
Look
how they become homeless
Nobody wants to address this
This isn't fair.

They become more than hopeless
Snatching away their rights
Burying their dreams
Dreams of the innocent children.
KyleB Apr 2021
Not all flowers have thorns
but roses do

roses are special, they are beautiful
just to the likes of you

so many flowers are pretty
but nothing compares
to the aesthetic of roses

and that's why they are aware.

their thorns protect them
they are born to fight

but they keep us silent,
cut our voices
they make us die

some people don't like roses
or don't like their thorns
they'll cut off their leaves
because they aren't thorns
and they'll cut down the thorns because nothing should be in the way

of their love

or so they say

when they cut our thorns
they are so proud
but do they know they take the rain out of clouds?

they break the spell,
they obstruct the beauty
sometimes they go ahead and just shoot me

I wonder, I wonder
oh dear rose of mine
why you die, oh you die
without your thorns sublime

not all flowers are roses
but none wishes to be
for the life of a rose

is as miserable as torture makes us be
KyleB Apr 2021
“Have a share“
They say
Then only look at some
They turn their back on others
Pretending they are none

There is only a share
When things are being shared
How can we have a share
When some people never were
In possession like the others
But does that even matter?

Rights aren‘t potatoes

We don‘t cut them like fries
We don‘t share them like a meal

We don‘t have to lose to thrive

Your ugly entitlement
It‘s based on taking from other‘s
You took a share and claimed it “right“
Then dared to call it “rights“.

There is no “right“
And no meaning to rights“
When you build up on the wrong

Rights have never been  potatoes

You don‘t decide who gets a share
Rights are no achievement
They are universal care
How can animal rights be defended,
not defending the rights of the unborn children...
How can the rights of the unborn children be defended,
not defending the poor or the hungry children...
Oh, the right, oh, the left...
Conservative jerks will call me names like a "leftist",
And on the leftist side, they will accuse me of being a rightist.
I am not a prophet in my country.

1.2.2021
Translation.
kainat Mar 2021
People name that place a paradise,
where painful screams are heard; but unheard
the Walking Souls are dealt to be soulless
the Blood is shed as a vain fluid
where Heartless beings are imposed to be escorted

People name that place a paradise,
where Sun rises with hope; but unhope
the Wanton is unbridled in his tyranny
and Victim is to be hushed unattended
where each Atom tells the story of oppression

People name that place a paradise,
where laughter became the part of past
that is mortuary but not a homeland
where Lively spirits are declared hollow
where humanity is just taken for granted

   People name that place a paradise
where painful screams will be heard; but unheard...
In the meantime in the Állos kósmos or Ultramundi, Wonthelimar after hearing the speeches and paragraphs of the speakers saw from paradise how Calypso Lepidoptera appeared, approaching in great magnitudes on the dry land on the banks of the blue and golden stones of Skalá. In torrents of rushing from the water-sky with wind-water, by geomorphological hydraulics of the collapse of the irresistible capacity to harass each other in the ears of Seleuco's dialogues, after they piled up in the sneaking curds of him on the island of his speech. Right there it settled from the koelum or sky of the Lepidoptera from the Orofí or ceiling, on the natural arches of aeolian erosion and its devastating plumage, appearing in the subaerial splendor of Chauvet and its gloomy darkness, changing the morphology of the bank of Skalá turned into enchanted turquoise light also with Calypso nuances. From here Wonthelimar obscures the circumflex arc or circumflexes, which pierced and eroded the surface, piling up the ex-generals of Alexander the Great, to skewer them on the stump that was languidly seen supporting them, after the tides of Lepidoptera that avalanche in destined per capita towards the destined underworld of Wonthelimar.

Wonthelimar was separated from everyone by the moat that was separated from the gods of the surface, but now where the supporters of Seleucus were predestined by imbibing themselves in the bilocated kingdom of Chauvet and its darkness, where they were put into agreements of suitability and clarity of words discursive for the eagerness to persuade his major general. But they all fell into the middle of a dark Ultraworld, judging themselves to be dying in stockpiles of biosystems where no one helped them and gave them some indication or diagnosis of being separated from the canopy that drained them from spectral affairs, speaking as vivid visions of benefits and sovereignties that escaped from themselves without contemplation or quietism of the human race, which procreates xenophobia to kings without throne or nation. Under the Attic, calendar were the months here were only eighth, Anthesterion, received them with the name directly of the main festival celebrated in this month, Anthesteria. In goods of name contests in the semester of Pyanepsia, Thargelia, and Skira where they were relatively significant, in some of the greatest celebrations in the life of a Polis, which is not recognized in the name of the month. Some sparkled in the sound of the Great Dionysia celebrated in Elaphebolion (ninth month), and the Panathenaia in which they are only indirectly recognized in Hekatombaion (month one), named after the hecatomb, of the sacrifice of "one hundred oxen" celebrated at night. End of the Panathenaia. This is where the suspicious fondness of both families of Seleucus and Alexander the Great differed in the accent that marks the written line of the infra Polis, where the leaders of Haides or Hades are lost, for the purposes of Aïdes, as not indivisible, but with the presence of Wonthelimar, who is invisible but epically static on his balustrade in all the rings that chorally wore them for each patronage of the diádocos generals, even so he had betrayed the Hellenic legacy, by a Hellenic-Orthodox one in the disappearance of Alexander the Great in Babylon without knowing that it had been rescued by Wonthelimar, surpassing the limits of the rings of stefánes ibix, or Aros de íbiz, as nano kvantikoí daktýlioi, quantum nano-ring that augured to sensitize the dermis of its carpal phalanges, from the eighth, Anthesterion to Elaphebolion (ninth month), minus the one hundred and twenty days of gestation in a month of the attic of imníbiz, that it was of wise advice to receive him in the new engend rivers of Wonthelimar in the depths and bundles of marrow with gestation forms of an Ibex goat, with their embedded bases of stalagmites, filing the meaning of each life that was lodged in the depths of the caves and its opacity. The Eygues of Valdaine was the Acheron, but with half the deceased who sat in rows and unleashed their laurels that possessed poor aids tormented by mandrake root hands.

The underworld was a swamp that covered the heels of the diádocos in the immense blackness of the cavern that wounded them one and the other with its Kopis, by more than a hundred blows and slashes that covered them with mud and moans in their buried half bodies. That they had been intruded from linear entrances to the underworld of Wonthelimar. In the thick musts of the quagmire where objects with ornaments of fear and cavalier materiality lay, such mangrove deserts satiated with gloomy fibromyalgia and amnesia, refiguring in the wandering bones, that sinned in lights and destinies that were adopted in the sub-world with incorporeal needs., more than the exhaustion that tore the skeletal muscle of each one behind the meager compromise openings, in the strong ligaments of the host Wonthelimar that took them at forced steps towards paradises where there will never be consciousness from a Theseus typology, but from a sub taxonomy - Verthian mythological, for purposes and among others that unleash it by propelling self-infernos that are not those born by a Macedonian force or Satrap into puny kings turned into a servile, mute and decayed.

It is necessary, that solitude of all the entrances from the abyss into which they fell, was titanic and of ultraphobic acquiescent inspiration, and in the acid gestures of search of Persephone or Aerse that in random gestures fled from their persecutors, like females who ended fleeing from themselves falling into the back room where the end of souls is never exceeded or Psyché re emigrating from the punishments of a satire or a static that resulted in a ghostly wandering, or in tendentious spinners that tribulated in belated bundles of repentance. From primitive times, subjugations have been longed for in kings who would never think of leaving their cracks and washing their hands behind the backs of others who stood by, leaving the courage to lose themselves in the perversity of a body deposited in the Tartars, having to give them their prehistoric debts and meadows of carpeted debts and caged rooms.

The generals commanded by Seleucus walked barefoot along with the stump that wounded them in seams for their plantar areas, and in extreme distress, they did not dare to ask mercy from the cave host who transported them through the deep pit of perpetuity, where the frigid bullet of angina of Wothelimar, filled them with memories that protected their survival. In unworthy caprice and watery *****,… it ran frivolously down their legs, even after each impulse to recover the flashes of estimating being scared of oneself, after finding dead fruits subsisted halfway, feeling voices from the origin of the abyss that I quoted them.

Etréstles says: "Mashiach allow me to enter this grave, I do not know if I should go to rescue them, because I know what will happen..., I only ask that if I enter with courage, help me to find the same light of the exit, with the same memory of not to waste arrests, and not to lose myself in my entrustment by those who I know will not return”

Behind some Sabine poplars, it is seen how the elytra of the Lepidoptera were opened for those who crossed from the darkness without the appearance of their fruitful eyes that tickled praises of surrender, and not of ibid in the ibid that surrounded them, as if they were violated that heal at the moment when their faces departed from the miracle of privacy, and from the solitude decreed of non-existent company, companionship calming any dogmatic symptoms and hypoxia that the glimpse of the Eygues and the Acheron left them, further behind in which Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth, Reader and Petrobus to bring Etréstles back.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Vernarth go for your brother,… he wants to protect the souls of Seleucus and his comrades, go soon because there is little left to fill them with darkness which will even besiege in their reasoning and anti homelands that will not be from the din of the campanile, out of tune with joy that runs on the graces of the gift that frees you from the worst virus by not being anti-viral… ”.

Vernarth replies: “Etréstles is the slogan of Erebus, perhaps of Bumodos…, I have to stop him for his profession, since the comrades of Seleuco will not return, the effigies of Wonthelimar have made them of his children in Ultramundi, and what is Solstice of the underworld, it is only a small Sun that fits in the buttonhole of the orthogonal slot that confines it”.

At that time Raeder paraded where he before they reached the omega of the gully pit, running swiftly over the eyelets of Wonthelimar, leaving both completely naked, to tear them away from the contrived spell and bring Etrestles back all the way together and running., but both stripped of lightness and acceleration escaped from the centripetal bodies. After the tortured walls of the pit, they no longer supported themselves in their Skotos or Erebo of Wothelimar in such a primordial deity of this theogonic and fantastic event in the bilocated cavern of Chauvet in Skalá. Here all the densities and units of physical genres, from above and below surrounded them in the thick sulfur atmosphere, Ananké in such a goddess of inevitability ran after all who tried to reverse the situation of the diádocos, for the purpose of consenting their paragraphs Hellenics and to save their lives, but the mother of the Moiras went behind Etréstles and Vernarth along with Rader and Petrobus who were basking in the glow of Persephone that imbued them as they stagnated drinking mead with the Canephores who followed him. From this cryptic moment or from the bombastic insignia of Crete, Kanti's trotting from his Cretan figure was felt united with the Lepidoptera Calypso, redeeming Demeter from her crying on the edge of some Bern olive trees, emptier now that the last gradients of the agonic and venous voices in the hilarious of some diádocos that were completely absorbed by the benevolent illusion of Wonthelimar, snowy in the harrowing tenuity of his gestures and of the great Iberian that took them towards the heights of the hillocks and towards the Ultramundi that It turned them into proles of the mountainous areas, and into super aquatic monsters with thousands of loose eyes in the arches of the generals bleating, which transposed ****** subjugations of primal deities, and philastics of phantasmagorical genres of Hellas that is plucked from the peritoneum of their stomachs, and that guttural eradicated them from the blue adrenaline of Apollo.

This odyssey dispelled the orthogonal lines of the poetic affliction of those who could see the sunset and the Spyché ***** that antagonized Ananké's numinous efforts to extubate them, and perhaps exile them to the Theban plains to graze Achaeans of the first degree alongside Shamash. Lamenting of young afternoons and of the abysmal with beautiful hair of the generous of effects, swampy and of feverish Hadesian or Hade's rounds that crippled their districts, they emanated from some Marie Curie junk and vapors radiating this Parapsychological Quantum to them from their own holy final body., for a virtuous and rout of the Ultramundis of Wonthelimar.
Wonthelimar Ultramundi
A Pursuit of Freedom

A pursuit of freedom,
based on blurring lines
of gender identity
and other things to follow.
The profane is now the norm,
and we advance, we advance,
celebrating the frog
in its slow boil death,
as we seek to destroy
any who warn against it.

Where, will it end?

James E. Roethlein copyright 2021
Jim is the author of two books of poetry “Musing On The Cricket Game of Life Part 1 1/2” and “An Extravagant Way of Saying Nothing “ both available on Amazon
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