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Tyrus Aug 2018
I have new pronouns!
But first this poem doesnt rhyme.
I'm not sure if this is even a poem.
More of my...coming out.
A clarification of sorts.

At birth, the doctor said,
"It's a girl!"
Well, whoever stared into my mother's ******, looked at mine, and determined my ***/gender for me...
****.
Wrong.
Errrrrnn.
(Those were buzzer sounds.)

My name is not Madison.
And though I am the proud owner of a ******™.
I am not a female.
My pronouns are not she/her.

My name is Ty. Short for Tyrus.
I am the proud owner of a ******™.
And I have not one, not 3
but 2 pronouns.
He/him.
And/or
They/them.

Either one of those is fine.
To be honest really don't mind.

I just ask that you stay away from she/her. :)

Thank you for following this "thing" to this point.
And thank you for using correct pronouns!


Please read the bottom thing:
I'm working on turning this into an actual poem that rhymes and has nice grammar and ****. But for right now here you go, and BE PROUD OF WHO YOU ARE!
  Aug 2018 Tyrus
Drew Vincent
There is someone in my house.

It's late at night and I can hear the sound of vegetables being chopped in the kitchen.
I am supposed to be home alone;
all of my family is out of town.

Why do I hear someone in my house?

Hiding in my room,
I wait.
Could this be just another hallucination?
Could this really be happening?

There is someone in my house,
and I know it now,
because the chopping stops.
I hear footsteps.
I pull the covers over my head,
as if being completely covered in my comforter
will make me invisible to the stranger creeping in my house.

There is a child at my bedroom door.
She is very small and very young.
She barely is taller than my arm rest on my desk chair.
She is staring at me with the one eye not being covered by her hair.
Her hair is long and midnight black,
the street lights pouring in from outside are visible in her hair,
creating a silver glow to her dark complexion.
Her head is cocked to one side,
hair falling in her face.
I start to move and realize I'm paralyzed.
I try to speak but I cannot move my mouth either.

There is a man in my doorway.
He appears suddenly,
like the wind on a chilly day.
He's tall and has broad shoulders.
It's obvious he never skips out on the gym.
He has a pale complexion,
his skin glows in the amber street lights.
He moves swiftly,
taking two long strides to reach my bed.
In my head I'm screaming,
in all reality the only sound that could be heard,
is the sound of the plastic the man is tying around me.
Plastic wraps around my
throat,
mouth,
arms,
legs,
and I still cannot move.
I cannot breathe.
Plastic wraps perfectly around my throat,
keeping me from being able to breathe easily.
I cannot even open my mouth to gasp for air,
I am completely restrained and paralyzed with fear.

There is a man in my bedroom,
and he picks me up with ease and tosses me into my hallway
before checking the other rooms.
The voice in my head echoes,
You're dreaming,
Wake up Drew.
He is not real.
That child is not real.
You're suffocating.
Your arms are burning.
You're not breathing.
You must wake up.
Wake up.
Wake up!
Wake up now, Drew!

With all the energy I had,
I catapult out of my bed.
Breathing heavily,
I rub my arms,
happy to feel they are no longer burning.
I think to myself,
thank God this was all just a nightmare.
I look up and see

There is a man standing in my doorway;
I'm no longer dreaming.
I had an awful awful nightmare. I believe it was sleep paralysis. I'm so sick and tired of having nightmares all the time. God how I wish they would stop.
  Mar 2018 Tyrus
Bo Burnham
I said no to drugs once.
I looked a bag of **** right in the face
and, like a loving but firm father,
I said, "No."
I was really high.
  Feb 2018 Tyrus
Iris Rebry
Am I not a fool for writing poetry
for the sake of writing poetry?
Am I to be rejected for using words
such as ennui?
Am I to be ****** for figurative language?
Or burned at the stake for
poising a period at the end of
a stream of
consciousness?
And yet my inner critic
yearns to yell
to scream
more words!
more passion!

I see their faces when
they look at me,
their empty eyes,
like corpses.
They believe morals
are paintings on
walls
and
scruples
are currency in Eastern Europe.
They do not know.
They do not drink
in the moments
that they cannot breathe.
They are silent tombstones.
Sinisterly and silently scorning Shakespeare
They trample over
Chaucer,
calling him dull.
And I too am seen as a
heretic.
for thinking of such
fantastical, whimsical
thoughts.

Was it ethical for Socrates to drink Hemlock?
Did they giggle like a couple of school girls
as he downed it like it was a
shot of whiskey?
And yet we heretics
are given the poison
of judgement everyday
swallowing the bitter cup

How much do I remember about not fitting in?
Is there reason to believe I ever will?
And yet faith has accepted the girl with
the curly hair.

Imagination
intuition
emotion
perception
reason

All qualities which
poetry blends into
passion.
For is not poetry
the expression of passion?
And yet this can be said of communication
in any way:
art
music,
writing

And yet you don't
see Romeo whispering
the Pythagorean Theorem
to Juliet on her balcony
No it lacks
sincerity
the Words are not his own.

No true poetry is the language
of the hidden soul,
the quintessence of life.
Yet another quote I will never be
quoted for is:
"Self education is better than none"
but that has nothing to do with poetry
except for how to write it.

And yes, I do enjoy
writing poetry.
and reading it too.
From Dante's inferno
to Poe's Raven
I have swam in the
channels of print
in everyone,
drowning in the words.

And yes, I do enjoy
being a heretic.
I may never stand in,
so all I can do is
Stand out.
This poem, while some might wonder who the "they" is referring to, that I cannot say, for whoever becomes the they will be greatly angered. This poem also was just a slew of thoughts that came into my brain that I had to write down. I had to breathe.
  Jan 2018 Tyrus
fatima
?
a dark way
and unknown destination
where should i go?
am i doing it right?

scared of being wrong
and hearing hallucinations
am i losing myself
or am i going to fail?
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