oliver Feb 20
unspoken words,
years of silence

it is time
to spread my wings

to embrace;

i am transgender
Sarah Michelle Mar 2015
Teen sits in his room
reflecting on the walls and tables
Sometimes this place is a cafe
and is a little bit unstable
Crosses his legs,
forgets the dread,
self-hood brings him back
from the troubles inside his head
Take his hand, lead him out the door,
stoke his fire a little bit more

Adolescence be free
Sweet adolescent boy, come back to me

Rests his head
upon the floor,
even the most grotesque things
won't bug him anymore
Young man doesn't watch them dance,
he knows he must grow his own steps before
they slip through his fingertips

Adolescence be free
Sweet adolescent boy, come back to me

Young man, be your own man
You're halfway there, so don't disappear
The cafe is crowded,
yet you're not alone, not stuck in one place
like a drone
You move across the room, bright and tall,
and never again going to fall
Like you did the day before
your soul returned to just being a kid


you are adolescent.
Third Eye Candy Oct 2013
back home in the dire hope where the lens is unclean
but the sky is scum. where the numb trust is broken
mostly from the rainfall lately
and the meager tools
are as useless
as a wink.

there. there i toil in the afterbirth
of a previous misadventure. censored and reduced to a miracle
that has no reason. There i plod the chaste road to wanton Elsewhere
and arrive most gone
from my seldom
hot white sun
toasty warm sand
seas that smile at the night sky
icy strawberry lemonade
liquor and bbq
ripe peaches and pineapples
ahhhhh...the perfect setting
jeffrey robin Oct 2013
On the surface
I look like an American


I've always felt
I've always known

That deep down inside

I am Italian!


For the sake of continuity

I'll still write as Jeffrey Robin

But I am now


(Oh yeah

I'm Italian Mafiosa!)


I feel liberated!



Oh yeah.

There's one more thing

You know how I'm always writing these highly sensitive intelligent poems?


I've looked deep down inside myself and realized that this isn't me!

Deep down inside




Out of the closet!

At last!



This is the first poem I've  written reflecting my newer



Let us romp together joyously


Beyond the Hills!
Stages and Ages Nov 2014
She wiped her hands clean

On the dirty dish rag

And threw out the empty bottle.

She said

“Oh well,”

And opened another.
Emma Sims Jan 2015
Sea settling,
Birds flying,
Air whistling,
Storm coming.

People leaving,
Raindrops falling,
Clouds gathering,
Storm coming.

Sun hiding,
Wind howling,
Waves thrashing,
Storm coming.

Lightning striking,
Dogs cowering,
Thunder rumbling,
Storm coming.

Tree's creaking,
Lighthouse flashing,
Ships crashing,
Storm coming.

Rocks falling,
Fear heightening,
Rage frightening,
Storm coming.

River flooding,
Forest flattening,
Landscape changing,
*Storm coming.
Wrote it at school a while ago, still one of my favourites.
Satsuki Oct 2014
I prefer not to label myself.
I like to think I'm just a human, no need for any other descriptions.
But considering the occasion - the label my sexuality fits into is bisexual.
I am not ashamed.
I am me.
I love who I love.
I am bisexual.
I am human.
Cedric McClester Apr 2016
By: Cedric McClester

The coming of Trump
Like the coming of Jesus
Is hailed by the masses
He knows how to please us
Or maybe it’s that
He just knows how to tease us
Cuz he’s clearly not Christ
Nor is he close to Jesus

The coming of Trump
Like Jesus went through Galilee
All that’s missing
Are the palm fronds ya see
But Jesus rode an ass
Trump rides an airplane
And so you’d have to say alas
The two just aren’t the same

The coming of Trump
With all the adulation
As if his words alone
Could really save the nation
And those who are prone
To not have any patience
You find at every stop
Wishing him their salutations

The coming of Trump
Like Jesus’ Sermon On-The- Mount
Talks about bringing
Many things into account
He’s gonna build a fence
At a huge discount
The Mexicans will pay for it
Which for him is paramount

Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2016.  All rights reserved.
Mary Mack Aug 2013
Standing in the middle of a wind storm trying to be heard...
Trying to call your name...
To tell you I'm scared.
To tell you I can't live without you knowing me.
Trying to tell you I love you.
But the words are stolen by the storm and lost in the wind.
Amber K Jul 2015
I don't know where I went wrong,
or why I couldn't help you.
You let the guilt eat you alive,
so you filled the space with,
and anything that would kill my heart.
All you had to do was stop.
You could've opened up to me,
and told me what you did.
The guilt would've went away
and you could've ended the hurt.
But now we are left with more pain than needed.
We will be okay though.
Things are finally in the open.
No more secrets and lies.
We are coming clean.
Kelly Weaver Jul 2016
Her weary eyes, skin torn at the cuticle
Feet aching yet marching still
Cotton on the heir’s back
Canvas on the feet of the dutchess
Triple the hours, double the dough

His crimson cheeks, toes purple with pride
Not a single tear, nor a single fear
No fuel for his ego
No warmth for his heart
Just a lonely street corner

Their tear-stained dress, his voice, her choice
Deep in their skin do they confess
If God was real, he'd want perfect
God wouldn't make them a sin
A “he” or “she” is not needed

The silent voice of forgotten
Too afraid to speak, startled still
Too afraid to be saved
Gone but never forgotten
A son or daughter, broken

A wedding, thank this “God”
Where men can act as such
And women use their powder
But genders may stay pure
It is a sin, after all

A young girl watching the news
Filled with hate, this world turns
She is coming of age, is she not?
She understands their struggle
And ready she is to stand up

For she has kids to feed
For he just needs a meal
For they want to be real
For they were never heard
For they wed their own
She understands. She accepts.

She is ready.
This poem won me a poetry contest for poems about respect in my advanced creative writing class so I hope you enjoy!!!
Nigel Morgan Jan 2013
I came home in the middle of the day,
nobody home but me.
The snowdrops in the back yard
were a surpliced choir
bowing their heads in prayer,
the camellia flowering still
like crazy.
Spring in the soft soft air
I turned my face skyward
to peg the washing
and thought  
this is our home.
Quiet now,
as we were quiet
last night silently reading,
gently letting our anxious words
fall away, and later
I played, for your ears alone,
in the next room
a Venezuelan dance,
caressing the strings
of the instrument that still
holds my heart
as I know you hold mine
Next page