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apiwe Dec 2018
It  must be nice:      
Being  given  freedom
To actually be able to choose
Who you love
And not just any ****
Because just before the word "No"
Rolls off my tongue  
I have to remember that there are only 1 out every 20
There are rarely none who go for black, nerdy, sociopathic, clingy mess
That there is no Grindr category or tribe for "****".
And when they do go for me
I have to appreciate the fact that I am "wanted",
Even on the "down low",  
To be somebody's *** dump
Because that is the closest thing I know to love
Sorry, no hotel room, candlelight,
rubber
First times for me
Only back door, alleyway, shadow corner
“Too drunk too remember my face? ”  
“no, the "P" is silent”
“****!” you hiss between your all straight, pearly white teeth
Shaking your head crowned by long, long hair
Don't judge me, I'm not cheap
It's just that selectivity fetches  such a high price
Sorry, I can't save myself for marriage because it's illegal
Sorry, I don't conform to heteronormativity.
“Well, it's by your choice”
you say
“You're the one who chose to be ***”
Yes, in a world where my ******* are the determing factor for who I must love
“Sorry, so does every straight boy like every straight girl?”
Yeah, I chose my own fate.
It must be nice:
Having Loneliness as a choice
And not set as a default.
Yeah, I'll say it again:
Heteronormativity *****!
And so do you.
  Nov 2018 apiwe
Robynne Nataly La Rosa
Seasons come and go,
Each year it's the same.
If only people changed like the seasons.
Winter, Summer, Autumn, Spring;
Each one holds a secret,
It's own special magic.

Winter holds a promise that there is
Life after Death.
Spring ignites a spark; a sliver of
Hope and a pinch of Joy for healing.
Autumn holds the key to
Eternity,
And Summer is the Epicenter of
The Magic.
Summer is the result; the After-life;
It is Rebirth.

Seasons change, and people do too,
But it's a pity - a shame - that people
Don't change the same way.
People are too unpredictable; we change
Our minds too many times, we change
Our Destinies every day.

Seasons don't.

Seasons accept their constant cycle;
Their Natural Pattern.
People will never be like the Seasons.
I guess that's what makes us all
Unique.

In this way
We are Designed -
Crafted, Molded.

Seasons harbour a Secret;
It's own special Magic.
We too, are our own special Magic.

Winter promises Life after Death,
People are promised Happiness after Depression.
Spring ignites a spark of Joy for Healing,
People are promised Joy and Healing after Pain
And Suffering.

Autumn holds the key to Eternity,
People are promised Eternity in the Promised Land.
Summer is the Epicenter; the After-life,
And people are the Epicenters of their own lives.

We are our own Masters of Catastrophe.
People are Reborn in Faith.

Looking at it now, maybe we are much like
The Seasons.

We are predictable in our unpredictability.
This is our prized Possession.
This is our kind of Magic.

People have seasons, people are seasons.
Winter is our Darker side,
Spring is our Healing,
Summer, our Euphorical - blissful side,
Autumn, our Procrastination, our Changing,
Our Learning.

Just like the Seasons, we change;
We mold our Futures and become who we are meant
To be;
We become part of a Cycle.
"Oldie but a goodie." The title was given to me as a topic for unprepared poetry writing 2 years ago, and I finished it within 5 minutes of our given time of 1 hour, and a few weeks after submission, found out that I was overall item winner.
That pushed me even harder to pursue Poetry.
apiwe Nov 2018
Air
sizzling with excitement, unpredictability
youth
Hits against their faces.
Breaking strong into a day of reckless liberty.
With blood running hot through their vessels
to their heads
to their eyes ever so warm with wonder - yet-
ever so chilled with nonchalance.
They don't care.
but I am in here.
No riffling pop song bass in my ears
only a sonata for flute, violin and harp
No intoxicating spirits for me
only the feel of a pen
and textbook cold and
hard against my skin - yet-
It is so warm in here...
I'm writing a Chemistry exam on Monday. My peers are making their own chemistry right now.

P. S I think I might have used the dash incorrectly. Excuse me, Grammar Nazis.

P. P. S The sonata is by Claude Debussy. Not sure of the Opus number
  Nov 2018 apiwe
Emily Dickinson
668

“Nature” is what we see—
The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Sea—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.
  Nov 2018 apiwe
Emily Dickinson
54

If I should die,
And you should live—
And time should gurgle on—
And morn should beam—
And noon should burn—
As it has usual done—
If Birds should build as early
And Bees as bustling go—
One might depart at option
From enterprise below!
’Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand
When we with Daisies lie—
That Commerce will continue—
And Trades as briskly fly—
It makes the parting tranquil
And keeps the soul serene—
That gentlemen so sprightly
Conduct the pleasing scene!
  Nov 2018 apiwe
Taru M
Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
     he wrote a poem
And he called it 'Chops'
     because that was the name of his dog
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
     and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
     and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
     took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
     with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed alot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
     Valentine signed with a row of X's
     and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
     he wrote a poem
And he called it 'Autumn'
     because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
     and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
     because of its new paint
And the kids told him
     that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
     with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
     when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
     his mother and father kissed alot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
     when he cried for him to do it.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
     he wrote a poem
And he called it 'Innocence: A Question'
     because that was the question about his girl
And that's what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
     and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
     because he never showed her
That was the year Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
     of the Apostle's Creed went
And he caught his sister
     making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
     or even talked
And the girl around the corner
     wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
     but he kissed her anyway
     because that was the thing to do
And at 3am he tucked himself into bed
     his father snoring soundly.

That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
     he tried another poem
And he called it 'Absolutely Nothing'
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each ****** wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
     because this time he didn't think
     he could reach the kitchen
I love this poem. I do not claim any rights to it. Found it in The Perks of Being a Wallflower, the best book EVER.
  Nov 2018 apiwe
loveless
And over time,
My pen stopped bleeding
But my heart didn't
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