No
No I do not want to hear you
Your words,
False promises.
Of how much you care,
How much you love us,
When we can see behind that curtain.
Mocking,
Thinking its all a game,
When what you think is just,
Some quirky film,
Can ****.
Can't you hear all the voices?
Can't you hear the last breaths,
Of those crying out for help,
Only to be killed?
Can't you see the way we've been treated,
Bullied,
Only for you to gain millions,
Being praised for what we are hated for.
No,
This is not a question of taste,
Or craftsmanship,
This is a call for our lives,
To be respected, to be treated with the dignity,
You wish for yourself.
And for those children,
That look up to you,
Love you,
Teach them acceptance,
Teach them love.
Teach them that those differences,
That word you are not able to say,
Disabilities,
Should be accepted,
Not mocked and scorned,
By the people surrounding us.
And that our pain,
Our expressions of sorrow,
Are not reasons for us to be hurt,
Or treated sub human.
If you are to win,
To recieve accolades,
Gain more fame,
Do not do it off the pain of others,
Stepping on years and years of trauma,
From those not willing to open their hearts,
To be truly human,
For our experiences are not for sale,
And our voices shall not be silenced.

clouds roll across the sky
in an overture heralding the coming of
storms, of flashes of light in a spectacle of
natural birth and suicide. thunder rips apart the
fabric of the heavens, leaving seams unsewn to rain
upon the damp earth agape. were it that sunshine was rare,
that amber light shone only through the darkness of stratocumulus
and curtains of raindrops would we beg the tempest to stay.
trees tremble in the prelude of wind knowing that they
must too bow down to the deluge. the first ripples on the
water paint labyrinths over duckweed and tadpoles, the afterbirth
of the floods, so does petrichor. that fragrant herald of life
and destruction place itself in fractals throughout the golden
air, filigree all but invisible to verse, and the poet that creates it.

it could be just a drizzle, nature watering her creation
the only electricity the excitement of the mosses and ferns
to recieve communion again. the war-drums of thunder may not
sound, only drops falling on water in a steady
percussive rhythm hypnotizing and maddening, accompanying
the wind blowing the trees in a millenia-old melody.
this poem could only be Romantic musings of the grand
memories of an antediluvian hurricane that never
occured or was witnessed, images and sounds that can
never be seen or heard, known by storms.

do you not love me,
as the fly loves nectar dropped in a pitcher-plant,
do you not embrace me,
as the mistletoe embraces its host,
suffocating.
do you not ******* lips,
lips of sweet-tasting cyanide and intoxicating nutmeg,
as these walls separate us,
they unite us,
and the saccharine poison of your affection,
has seeped into my veins.
let me be your antidote,
your toxin,
let me be part of you,
and consume your spirit.
let me sit by you under the strychnine tree,
my head in your lap,
and drink another dose.

The Milky Way looks upon the field,
Millions of lights illuminating,
Each petal,
Each stem.
And as the sun sets,
The smell of fragrant herbs and summer skies grace the wind,
Painting the horizon.
Hues of purple run endlessly,
Roads to the boundary of heaven and earth,
Of soil and stars.
And as a lone bird sings,
The moon rises,
And washes the colors away in white.

aromatic amethyst thoughts fill my head,
as I walk through that Provence July,
feet touching the cool soil,
a warm breeze
caressing me.

slipping from my fingers,
the fickle fish time,
sand running out of the hourglass.
tell me why nothing may last,
why the leaf reaching an emerald-green apex,
decays to brown.
and why the fly agaric
has grown through your body,
jewels in your funeral shroud.
two glossy berries have fallen into your eyes,
staring at me, at the wind blowing the soil onto you.
your prized bracelets and necklaces replaced by young creepers,
white flowers filling ripening buds.
and when your elderflower bones touch the light,
two-hundred-and-six pearls released from their oyster,
as the shining leaf turns to grey.



nothing gold can stay

How do you bury a flower?
Sun-kissed petals giving light,
Imbued with innocence and kindness.
Do you preserve her in thought,
In her poems and speeches?
Or do you tear her petals,
Destroy legacies,
Of peace,
And turn to war.

In the midst of chaos and comedy,
A stillness appears,
Rippling across the musical fabric.
A trail of water moves across,
Waves of piano and cello.
I let myself melt into the sound,
My being joining the two instruments,
A trio.
The melody is the soul of a dancer,
Supple yet with unimaginable strength.
I close my eyes,
And let myself melt into the G major scale,
Flying to that F-sharp minor,
Facing the darkness,
And then letting myself go,
Into the light,
Into that beauty that is the mind.

When you said you could not tell,
If there was anything "wrong with me",
Because I was so eloquent and social,
Empathetic.
I wished to get up,
And tell you absolutely everything.
About how it is hard for me to make friends,
About how I was put down again and again,
For my curiosity and "weird" interests.
Yes, I am social,
I have learned, I have seen others,
And their kindness is warmth.
Yes, I create stories with my words,
Bringing forth what I think, what I know.
Your biggest mistake was thinking there was something wrong with me,
There is not.
There is difference.
And if you sincerely believe that difference is wrong,
Needs to be fixed,
I am sorry,
For maybe what needs fixing,
Is your view of what I am.

has it already been two years,
since a rebirth from the darkness of
thinking that all this pain was my fault?
no, it has been longer,
from those small moments where i'd read
under the covers with a flashlight
or moving my hands so fast i could fly,
the poison of self-hatred was cured with the antidote,
of radical, unapologetic love.

My existence is protest.
Where I am placed in a world,
Built to oppose, oppress me.
Yet I smile,
I own my body,
And my words.
Where there are people that oppose my independence,
My being,
I will work harder,
And speak louder.
My existence is protest,
My laughter revolution.

"Rebellious" ha,
It's a new generation,
We're children of radical kindness.
We will not tolerate that normalized hate,
Throwing those outdated systems into the trash.
We embrace our siblings of all genders, sexualities, races,
Overthrowing those thoughts that tear people down.
Our collective religion is acceptance,
Our prayer, protest.
It is time to ring in the new,
Toss out the old,
And embrace this new revolution,
One of empathy.

young child,
who hangs her head in shame,
do not be afraid.
for you have a voice like a tiger's roar
commanding respect with your ideas.
lift your chin high,
and ignore those who say you are too small
too weak
do not matter.
is it not the children that create
that we owe our pasts and future to?
sweet girl, you keep our legacies within your imagination,
and it is up to you to decide whether you remember us as
friends or foes,
creators or destroyers.
so do not bend to the sound of "you are too young",
this world is yours to keep,
we are only using it,
until we are  dust and bone,
blown away by the wind.

the wild daisy blooms in May,
warm soil nurturing, the dampness springing forth
turkey tails and fly agaric.
from this soil happiness sprouts too,
in the form of sweet exchanges,
awkward mishaps,
sincere confessions.
you are the May sunshine and the rain,
which makes my heart and mind blossom.
and may we step barefoot on the cool dewy grass,
and embark on this journey together

keep your hands off of me,
and do not look at me with ravenous eyes,
seeing me for only my body.
my life is mine to live,
not entertainment for you to
watch and play out your fantasies.
my coca-cola is not your place
to find opportunities to subdue,
to sedate.
my cocktail dress is not what drives you to
violence, it is you.
nor should my identity be like a baseball card,
meant to collect and brag about.
we should be safe wherever we go,
not fear keeping us from celebrating, doing what we love.
teach your daughters to use their voice,
and teach your sons to respect it.

Gymnopedie no 1
I remember when you closed your eyes,
And sighed,
As I played that Gymnopedie.
I remember how you told me it was your favorite,
And I played it over and over,
A nonverbal "I love you"
I remember when we got the news,
That dreaded word,
Cancer,
And that Gymnopedie was filled with pain.
Months later,
Knowing you were slipping away,
I played and played,
As if those dissonant chords,
Were to cure you.
And when you were gone,
That horrid word, dead, falling from my mother's mouth,
I played that Gymnopedie for you.
This is a tribute to my father, who passed around a year ago © 14 hours ago   love • piano • loss

Do you not see,
When you look down on me,
Think that somehow,
I am less,
Do you not see,
My accomplishments?
Do you not see, how I use my voice,
In verse,
In prose.
How can it fit in your mind,
That I am less,
Because I am different?
Because for reasons unknown,
My brain was constructed in a manner you are not used to?
How do you spend your time,
With friends laughing,
And turn around and see me,
As a helpless child?
I am no child.
If you are to speak to me,
Speak to me with respect,
Like you do to those you are used to.
Do not belittle me,
And pretend I do not know anything,
When you speak to me,
Note who I am,
Empowered,
Myself,
Not yours.

sunlight illuminates the butterfly's blue wing,
as it soars reaching the sky,
an Icarus that carries me on its delicate body.
shimmering azure beauty,
take me to your home,
where I may sing,
my voice the wind,
the accompaniment her words.

I have seen the way that you treat your kind,
lead piercing your brothers and sisters,
until you water me with ochre.
that you have become polluted with ideals of glory,
when you and your "enemy's" bones will fertilize my roots the same.
for three thousand years I have stood here,
seen generals fall, heroes rise,
and they all rot in the damp soil,
from which I feed.
do the kings and infantrymen not give themselves up,
to vultures and ravens circling above?
you call bloodshed greatness,
but you have sown a gory orchard.

I
There is a certain joy,
In the reign of entropy,
Where all that was wasn't,
And all comes from nothing.

Balance is chaos' mistress,
Pleasing him with her gifts,
A Scherezade,
Knowing she could be destroyed at any moment.

Destruction and creation,
What comes out of nothingness and somethingness,
Ripples in the fabric of space and time,
Obscuring what is next to come.

There is a certain joy,
In the reign of entropy,
And man serves it,
With fear and pleasure.

II
How ironic it is,
To drown in mercury.
The god of speed slowing you down,
In a dense silvery liquid.

He takes you to Pluto's kingdom,
As you are gilded in a silvery film,
All that is left,
Is the stain of carbon.

Would that last breath,
The moment that poets and scholars speak of,
Be nothing but an oxide,
A chemical footprint?

How ironic it is,
To drown in mercury,
To be born in biology,
But your legacy chemistry.


III

He dreams of successes,
Of the bounty of the sea.
That the water be his friend,
And give its bounty to him.

When the waves crash,
And all he can see is a grey wall,
He knows,
He belongs to his aquatic lover.

Ran's net is lifted,
And all the fisherman thinks,
Is how he may return to his origin,
His birthplace of a billion years.

He dreams of successes,
Of the bounty of the sea,
But his bounty isn't his fish or scallops,
It is the cold embrace of his home.

fleeing the smoke,
the phoenix looks for new embers,
where she can be reborn.
emerging from the flames,
she raises two chicks,
straddling Pompeii's plain and Eden.

Vesuvius erupts again,
chaos, violence, unrest.
40 million in pain,
covered by the mud of corruption and insensitivity.
she looks back at her home,
and recognizes the cycle.

this slimy beast of war,
feeding on blood and tears,
on anger and sorrow,
grows fatter and fatter with each rubber bullet,
each canister of gas and molotov cocktail.
born from a leaf of coca,
it feasts on the bodies,
of children and adults alike.

and as she flies over the land,
the phoenix calls for the rain to vanquish the beast for good.

Black tourmaline feathers glisten,
A mirror for the constellations,
And by the milky-white light of the moon,
A young shoot appears from a branch,
To give life in a new day.

thoughts flow,
on a fast icy path they
race through a d minor sigh.
and as the soft throbbing of
the hearts of pine and birch trees,
lay a background for this dance to play out,
the thoughts move faster and faster
a blizzard of memories mixing into each other
i do not know where they begin,
whether these are mine,
or only my turn to keep them.
or if this whirlwind of emotions
is nothing but an illusion
from a wintry concerto,
that toys with my mind.

What does being a woman mean?
It is resisting,
It is learning,
Making and breaking rules.
It is standing up to a society,
Where your body is seen as an object,
And using that body,
To create change.
It is arriving at tables,
Where we were barred from sitting at before,
And taking space.
Being a woman is not frailty,
It is strength,
And I will take this collective strength,
And make it my own.

is it not from,
dust we return?
and we were starstuff,
but now coarse grey sand.

wait for me,
as you slowly disappear,
into that unknown land and travel,
where I cannot reach you.
give me one last kiss on my forehead,
one more smile,
dad.

again and again and
again
steady beating of footsteps
and the rustling of soft breaths.
noisy silence piercing
no corner is free from it
and again and again and again
the cycle starts
no sound closing in
and breaking out
and again and again
knives cut through an auditory cloth
lost memories spilling out,
again and again and again
eight hundred and forty times
until utter collapse.

the flower of today,
shrivels and crumbles,
into a faded mist,
of what we call yesterday.

My voice,
My power,
Cannot be taken away
By you.

When I had written "I love you",
On that little margin of your homework,
Barely visible.
I wished to say,
That your smile brings a kind of warmth,
Filled with pure kindness and empathy,
And that melodious laughter,
When we sat together looking at memes,
It brought even more joy.
I relish the moments,
When we accidentally touch hands,
A spark of connection,
Ephemeral.
When you listen to what I am excited about,
Even though you might not understand,
I stumble over words,
And cannot collect my thoughts,
For there is a pleasant overwhelm of emotion.
So I scribbled in pen,
Right on the margin of your homework,
"I love you"

I am strong.
I am tired of the crap.
I am not disposable,
Some plaything to look at,
Touch.
Do not make your fragile promises to me,
And expect me to believe you,
Trust you.
I have lived through adversity,
And through adversity I will rise.
My mind is not something for you to use,
Not a cheat-sheet, or moldable clay that you can shape,
To make me conform to your ideals.
It is a treasure,
One I am learning to love,
And no one can take that from me.
I do not belong to anyone,
I am not a possession or pet,
Or someone to step on to achieve your goals.
I am a person,
Who takes up space,
And demands respect.

The ghosts I live with,
Reside in the corners of my room,
And tell me stories,
When I press play.

Doth Zephyr's breath not blow through thy fair hair,
Golden strands cascading down thy alabaster back,
And whistle its sweet melodies through curtains of sunlight?
Doth Selene's gentle touch grace thy face,
As I did so many nights ago?
Do the nereids carry thy hallowed body,
Sea-spray clothing thee in the finest robes?
Doth thy soul still belong to me,
As you lay at the bottom of the ocean,
Wrapped in your finest dress,
Faithfully clinging to a barnacle-crusted mast,
Anticipating our wedding-day?

My Euridice,
Sweet woman,
Who's tender soul could turn even the stone heart of death.
Your loving touch like magic,
As I drink that embrace like honey,
It transforms my sins into prayers.
And your melodious voice,
Like a lyre,
I listen to your songs obsessively,
Their rhythms are my heartbeat.
When that cold hand of Thanatos stole you,
Holding you to Elysium where you belong,
When your song stopped,
He took me too.

I lie between two worlds,
A gap between dreams,
And the ways I turn them into reality.

Your skin like a soft moonbeam
Radiating on my face,
As I drink that pale light,
Like a sweet wine.
Your eyes sharing stories,
Of love, of pain,
I look into them,
And fall.
Your lips,
Ruby-red, fire amongst that landscape
Of your face.
Oh to kiss you over and over!
Share your stories,
Look into your eyes,
Touch your skin,
And know I'm yours

You want to put this in this monolith,
This singular movement,
One person.
But you have not seen the power of individuality,
Of those with different experiences,
Different lives.
It's so easy to dismiss us as "The Climate Movement",
Not remember our names,
"The Greta of ...".
We have our stories,
We have our experiences,
Our hopes and fears.
Our unity should never be mistaken for some sort of conformity,
There is no conformity,
Only a common goal.
I own my stories,
I own my struggles,
I own my victories and losses.
Every single word spoken through a megaphone,
Or written in a petition,
Those are crafted from experiences,
From us seeing with our own eyes,
What the state of the planet is.
It is easy to break a promise to an invisible entity,
But not to millions of youth with their own voices.
It is easy to ignore the cry of one,
But impossible to ignore the roaring thunder of our stories.