Females and males are one in the world,
although that is not the belief that has been furled.
We are told that one gender is better than the other,
it seems it's just one stereotype; one after another.

Equality can become realised if only we believe
and take the initiative to take action and achieve.
Why shouldn't men and women be treated the same?
To have equal rights and equal pay, that should really be our aim.

Men, gender inequality is your issue too,
although you may not agree, I'm afraid it is true.
You should have the right to express your emotions and be what you please,
You should not be pulled back by stigma, but instead be who you are at ease.

Instead of fighting, we should be pulling together,
and make this journey a joint endeavor.
We are of equal value if only we open our eyes,
at the heart of change is where we become most wise.

Now or never? If not us then who?
the interest in this movement must come through.
Equality is not a privilege but a human right,
all genders on the spectrum should be able to shine bright.

I chose feminism because I believe in equality between genders.
because I’m against gender roles, men who need a woman to get their **** done are not “cute” and are nothing but spoiled little brats.
because my virginity, my body hair and how I dress up are none of your business.
I chose feminism because I’m not a *** machine nor a baby producer I value much much more than that.
because I don’t need a man to validate my self worth, I already know what I’m worth.
because in some countries ***** women are forced to spend the rest of their life under the same roof as their assaulter.
I chose feminism because a woman who speak up and raise her voice is a ***** .
because in my city a woman was beaten by her husband the night of their wedding because she didn’t “bleed” in the *******.
I chose to speak up because an 8 year old Yemeni girl died of internal injuries at the hands of 40 year old husband on their wedding night.
because ****** is not a ***** word and my periods are not disgusting.
because more women need to speak up and speak for their rights
I chose feminism and everyone should do the same .

Fractured Genders
Jude writing as a woman

I was probably 14.
That awkward age of self-discovery.
For a girl and perhaps also for a boy.
I guess confused.
I guess troubled.

In my daydreams, I always saw myself
as a boy.
A strong virile boy.
Saving  beautiful princesses from
prison towers.
Fighting dragons
With only a sword.
A smaller skinnier version of Xena.

That's when I asked myself the biggie.
Am I a lesbian?
Do I want to be a man.?
I dated and kissed teenage boys.
The more i kissed
The less of a lesbian
i would become right?.

At college, I kissed a girl for the first time.
It was not what I expected.
Her face soft and lipstick was fire red.
She drowned me
with the smell of gardenias.
Where was the stubble
the smell of sweat
The faint taste of stale tobacco.

Then I met him
He was beautiful and toned.
So gentle he made  me cry.
We hit it off right away.
He fixed up the small apartment i had.
He placed flowers in every room.
Washed and ironed my clothes.
For my birthday
he baked me a chocolate cake.

I lay next to him in bed
I wanted to tear his shorts off
But he would not let me.
I am not ready he said softly.

After a while I became
the daydream power  boy again.
Would you rather date boys i asked ?
In an effort to break the ice

He looked at me with his
beautiful gray eyes like ice.
I have never met one
that I like enough, he said softly.
Well do you think we could
find you one together?
My ivory tower prince  needed rescuing.
Well he said softly
I am rather in love
with you right now
If that's ok with you.

That night we made love.
I fell for him so deeply.
And I became the sort of
a power figure in the relationship.

I wore sweats and jeans cargo shorts and
He did not care.
We made love every night.
And I knew we had both
got fractured genders.

But we were in love
And love does not care
about genders or
how differently
it is expressed.

It is just love
And love always
takes
Exactly what it wants
From all of us.

The yellow, early evening sun feels heavy and warm on my legs.
Like a cat curled up to enjoy a small nap,
It rests on my pink and rainbow blanket.
My mother snores in the old blue chair next to me,
******* in worry and exhaustion and the scent of basil,
Oblivious to the small-town sounds of birds and cars and children playing,
Unaware that her daughter is something she claims to not understand.

"Pansexuality, honestly, just sounds
Horrible,"
She had told me.
"I don't understand pansexuality and gender-fluid and stuff,"
She said,
The car sliding smoothly over the highway under grey skies.
I tried to explain, but I was swamped in
Confusion.
"Well...there are more than two genders, like being gender-fluid and agendered and bi-gendered and third-gendered......
And pansexual people like all of those genders."
"That's what I can't understand. I mean, I kinda get the concept, but..." Her voice trails away like blue cigarette smoke, still deadly even after it has dissipated into the clouds.
I feel like I'm choking on it, raw pink lungs tightening and swelling, forcing yellow stars before my eyes,
Not able to explain the way
I don't care what you identify as,
I only care about love.
My mother's grandmother didn't know that non-straight people existed.
My mother's mother didn't know that bisexual people existed.
My mother doesn't believe that more than two genders exist,
Or know that I find all of them attractive.
But she had already dropped the subject,
Instead filling the awkward lull with discussions of
Colleges and books she's reading and and what my younger sister is doing in school.
I could feel my soul bubbling up behind my lips,
Pink and yellow and blue,
I wanted to tell her to stop and listen.
I wanted to tell her to be quiet,
And to be accepting,
And to try to understand.
I wanted to tell her
'I'm pansexual.
There.
Now you know.
Would you have said that it was horrible and that you can't understand?
That, in essence, I am horrible and you can't understand me?'
But I didn't.
I sat, the warm sticky grey leather under my thighs
The same as the warm, sticky grey clouds,
The yellow sun just peeking out into blue skies beyond the pale pink dogwoods.

She wakes up, warm sticky breath catching in her chest
As she opens her eyes.
She mumbles quietly about oversleeping
Before she rushes out the door,
Leaving behind a daughter
She thinks she knows,
As she claims to not understand
My label
That I have hidden inside my closet door,
Next to my pink, yellow, blue scarves.
Maybe tomorrow I'll put it on,
Pin my heart to my sleeve,
Wear my colors proudly.
But not today.  
Never today.

It is full winter now:  the trees are bare,
Save where the cattle huddle from the cold
Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear
The autumn’s gaudy livery whose gold
Her jealous brother pilfers, but is true
To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it blew

From Saturn’s cave; a few thin wisps of hay
Lie on the sharp black hedges, where the wain
Dragged the sweet pillage of a summer’s day
From the low meadows up the narrow lane;
Upon the half-thawed snow the bleating sheep
Press close against the hurdles, and the shivering house-dogs creep

From the shut stable to the frozen stream
And back again disconsolate, and miss
The bawling shepherds and the noisy team;
And overhead in circling listlessness
The cawing rooks whirl round the frosted stack,
Or crowd the dripping boughs; and in the fen the ice-pools crack

Where the gaunt bittern stalks among the reeds
And ***** his wings, and stretches back his neck,
And hoots to see the moon; across the meads
Limps the poor frightened hare, a little speck;
And a stray seamew with its fretful cry
Flits like a sudden drift of snow against the dull grey sky.

Full winter:  and the ***** goodman brings
His load of ******* from the chilly byre,
And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and flings
The sappy billets on the waning fire,
And laughs to see the sudden lightening scare
His children at their play, and yet,—the spring is in the air;

Already the slim crocus stirs the snow,
And soon yon blanched fields will bloom again
With nodding cowslips for some lad to mow,
For with the first warm kisses of the rain
The winter’s icy sorrow breaks to tears,
And the brown thrushes mate, and with bright eyes the rabbit peers

From the dark warren where the fir-cones lie,
And treads one snowdrop under foot, and runs
Over the mossy knoll, and blackbirds fly
Across our path at evening, and the suns
Stay longer with us; ah! how good to see
Grass-girdled spring in all her joy of laughing greenery

Dance through the hedges till the early rose,
(That sweet repentance of the thorny briar!)
Burst from its sheathed emerald and disclose
The little quivering disk of golden fire
Which the bees know so well, for with it come
Pale boy’s-love, sops-in-wine, and daffadillies all in bloom.

Then up and down the field the sower goes,
While close behind the laughing younker scares
With shrilly whoop the black and thievish crows,
And then the chestnut-tree its glory wears,
And on the grass the creamy blossom falls
In odorous excess, and faint half-whispered madrigals

Steal from the bluebells’ nodding carillons
Each breezy morn, and then white jessamine,
That star of its own heaven, snap-dragons
With lolling crimson tongues, and eglantine
In dusty velvets clad usurp the bed
And woodland empery, and when the lingering rose hath shed

Red leaf by leaf its folded panoply,
And pansies closed their purple-lidded eyes,
Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy
Unload their gaudy scentless merchandise,
And violets getting overbold withdraw
From their shy nooks, and scarlet berries dot the leafless haw.

O happy field! and O thrice happy tree!
Soon will your queen in daisy-flowered smock
And crown of flower-de-luce trip down the lea,
Soon will the lazy shepherds drive their flock
Back to the pasture by the pool, and soon
Through the green leaves will float the hum of murmuring bees at noon.

Soon will the glade be bright with bellamour,
The flower which wantons love, and those sweet nuns
Vale-lilies in their snowy vestiture
Will tell their beaded pearls, and carnations
With mitred dusky leaves will scent the wind,
And straggling traveller’s-joy each hedge with yellow stars will bind.

Dear bride of Nature and most bounteous spring,
That canst give increase to the sweet-breath’d kine,
And to the kid its little horns, and bring
The soft and silky blossoms to the vine,
Where is that old nepenthe which of yore
Man got from poppy root and glossy-berried mandragore!

There was a time when any common bird
Could make me sing in unison, a time
When all the strings of boyish life were stirred
To quick response or more melodious rhyme
By every forest idyll;—do I change?
Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair pleasaunce range?

Nay, nay, thou art the same:  ’tis I who seek
To vex with sighs thy simple solitude,
And because fruitless tears bedew my cheek
Would have thee weep with me in brotherhood;
Fool! shall each wronged and restless spirit dare
To taint such wine with the salt poison of own despair!

Thou art the same:  ’tis I whose wretched soul
Takes discontent to be its paramour,
And gives its kingdom to the rude control
Of what should be its servitor,—for sure
Wisdom is somewhere, though the stormy sea
Contain it not, and the huge deep answer ‘’Tis not in me.’

To burn with one clear flame, to stand *****
In natural honour, not to bend the knee
In profitless prostrations whose effect
Is by itself condemned, what alchemy
Can teach me this? what herb Medea brewed
Will bring the unexultant peace of essence not subdued?

The minor chord which ends the harmony,
And for its answering brother waits in vain
Sobbing for incompleted melody,
Dies a swan’s death; but I the heir of pain,
A silent Memnon with blank lidless eyes,
Wait for the light and music of those suns which never rise.

The quenched-out torch, the lonely cypress-gloom,
The little dust stored in the narrow urn,
The gentle XAIPE of the Attic tomb,—
Were not these better far than to return
To my old fitful restless malady,
Or spend my days within the voiceless cave of misery?

Nay! for perchance that poppy-crowned god
Is like the watcher by a sick man’s bed
Who talks of sleep but gives it not; his rod
Hath lost its virtue, and, when all is said,
Death is too rude, too obvious a key
To solve one single secret in a life’s philosophy.

And Love! that noble madness, whose august
And inextinguishable might can slay
The soul with honeyed drugs,—alas! I must
From such sweet ruin play the runaway,
Although too constant memory never can
Forget the arched splendour of those brows Olympian

Which for a little season made my youth
So soft a swoon of exquisite indolence
That all the chiding of more prudent Truth
Seemed the thin voice of jealousy,—O hence
Thou huntress deadlier than Artemis!
Go seek some other quarry! for of thy too perilous bliss.

My lips have drunk enough,—no more, no more,—
Though Love himself should turn his gilded prow
Back to the troubled waters of this shore
Where I am wrecked and stranded, even now
The chariot wheels of passion sweep too near,
Hence!  Hence!  I pass unto a life more barren, more austere.

More barren—ay, those arms will never lean
Down through the trellised vines and draw my soul
In sweet reluctance through the tangled green;
Some other head must wear that aureole,
For I am hers who loves not any man
Whose white and stainless ***** bears the sign Gorgonian.

Let Venus go and chuck her dainty page,
And kiss his mouth, and toss his curly hair,
With net and spear and hunting equipage
Let young Adonis to his tryst repair,
But me her fond and subtle-fashioned spell
Delights no more, though I could win her dearest citadel.

Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boy
Who from Mount Ida saw the little cloud
Pass over Tenedos and lofty Troy
And knew the coming of the Queen, and bowed
In wonder at her feet, not for the sake
Of a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple take.

Then rise supreme Athena argent-limbed!
And, if my lips be musicless, inspire
At least my life:  was not thy glory hymned
By One who gave to thee his sword and lyre
Like AEschylos at well-fought Marathon,
And died to show that Milton’s England still could bear a son!

And yet I cannot tread the Portico
And live without desire, fear and pain,
Or nurture that wise calm which long ago
The grave Athenian master taught to men,
Self-poised, self-centred, and self-comforted,
To watch the world’s vain phantasies go by with unbowed head.

Alas! that serene brow, those eloquent lips,
Those eyes that mirrored all eternity,
Rest in their own Colonos, an eclipse
Hath come on Wisdom, and Mnemosyne
Is childless; in the night which she had made
For lofty secure flight Athena’s owl itself hath strayed.

Nor much with Science do I care to climb,
Although by strange and subtle witchery
She drew the moon from heaven:  the Muse Time
Unrolls her gorgeous-coloured tapestry
To no less eager eyes; often indeed
In the great epic of Polymnia’s scroll I love to read

How Asia sent her myriad hosts to war
Against a little town, and panoplied
In gilded mail with jewelled scimitar,
White-shielded, purple-crested, rode the Mede
Between the waving poplars and the sea
Which men call Artemisium, till he saw Thermopylae

Its steep ravine spanned by a narrow wall,
And on the nearer side a little brood
Of careless lions holding festival!
And stood amazed at such hardihood,
And pitched his tent upon the reedy shore,
And stayed two days to wonder, and then crept at midnight o’er

Some unfrequented height, and coming down
The autumn forests treacherously slew
What Sparta held most dear and was the crown
Of far Eurotas, and passed on, nor knew
How God had staked an evil net for him
In the small bay at Salamis,—and yet, the page grows dim,

Its cadenced Greek delights me not, I feel
With such a goodly time too out of tune
To love it much:  for like the Dial’s wheel
That from its blinded darkness strikes the noon
Yet never sees the sun, so do my eyes
Restlessly follow that which from my cheated vision flies.

O for one grand unselfish simple life
To teach us what is Wisdom! speak ye hills
Of lone Helvellyn, for this note of strife
Shunned your untroubled crags and crystal rills,
Where is that Spirit which living blamelessly
Yet dared to kiss the smitten mouth of his own century!

Speak ye Rydalian laurels! where is he
Whose gentle head ye sheltered, that pure soul
Whose gracious days of uncrowned majesty
Through lowliest conduct touched the lofty goal
Where love and duty mingle!  Him at least
The most high Laws were glad of, he had sat at Wisdom’s feast;

But we are Learning’s changelings, know by rote
The clarion watchword of each Grecian school
And follow none, the flawless sword which smote
The pagan Hydra is an effete tool
Which we ourselves have blunted, what man now
Shall scale the august ancient heights and to old Reverence bow?

One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod!
Gone is that last dear son of Italy,
Who being man died for the sake of God,
And whose unrisen bones sleep peacefully,
O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower,
Thou marble lily of the lily town! let not the lour

Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, or
The Arno with its tawny troubled gold
O’er-leap its marge, no mightier conqueror
Clomb the high Capitol in the days of old
When Rome was indeed Rome, for Liberty
Walked like a bride beside him, at which sight pale Mystery

Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cell
With an old man who grabbled rusty keys,
Fled shuddering, for that immemorial knell
With which oblivion buries dynasties
Swept like a wounded eagle on the blast,
As to the holy heart of Rome the great triumvir passed.

He knew the holiest heart and heights of Rome,
He drave the base wolf from the lion’s lair,
And now lies dead by that empyreal dome
Which overtops Valdarno hung in air
By Brunelleschi—O Melpomene
Breathe through thy melancholy pipe thy sweetest threnody!

Breathe through the tragic stops such melodies
That Joy’s self may grow jealous, and the Nine
Forget awhile their discreet emperies,
Mourning for him who on Rome’s lordliest shrine
Lit for men’s lives the light of Marathon,
And bare to sun-forgotten fields the fire of the sun!

O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower!
Let some young Florentine each eventide
Bring coronals of that enchanted flower
Which the dim woods of Vallombrosa hide,
And deck the marble tomb wherein he lies
Whose soul is as some mighty orb unseen of mortal eyes;

Some mighty orb whose cycled wanderings,
Being tempest-driven to the farthest rim
Where Chaos meets Creation and the wings
Of the eternal chanting Cherubim
Are pavilioned on Nothing, passed away
Into a moonless void,—and yet, though he is dust and clay,

He is not dead, the immemorial Fates
Forbid it, and the closing shears refrain.
Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates!
Ye argent clarions, sound a loftier strain
For the vile thing he hated lurks within
Its sombre house, alone with God and memories of sin.

Still what avails it that she sought her cave
That murderous mother of red harlotries?
At Munich on the marble architrave
The Grecian boys die smiling, but the seas
Which wash AEgina fret in loneliness
Not mirroring their beauty; so our lives grow colourless

For lack of our ideals, if one star
Flame torch-like in the heavens the unjust
Swift daylight kills it, and no trump of war
Can wake to passionate voice the silent dust
Which was Mazzini once! rich Niobe
For all her stony sorrows hath her sons; but Italy,

What Easter Day shall make her children rise,
Who were not Gods yet suffered? what sure feet
Shall find their grave-clothes folded? what clear eyes
Shall see them ******?  O it were meet
To roll the stone from off the sepulchre
And kiss the bleeding roses of their wounds, in love of her,

Our Italy! our mother visible!
Most blessed among nations and most sad,
For whose dear sake the young Calabrian fell
That day at Aspromonte and was glad
That in an age when God was bought and sold
One man could die for Liberty! but we, burnt out and cold,

See Honour smitten on the cheek and gyves
Bind the sweet feet of Mercy:  Poverty
Creeps through our sunless lanes and with sharp knives
Cuts the warm throats of children stealthily,
And no word said:- O we are wretched men
Unworthy of our great inheritance! where is the pen

Of austere Milton? where the mighty sword
Which slew its master righteously? the years
Have lost their ancient leader, and no word
Breaks from the voiceless tripod on our ears:
While as a ruined mother in some spasm
Bears a base child and loathes it, so our best enthusiasm

Genders unlawful children, Anarchy
Freedom’s own Judas, the vile prodigal
Licence who steals the gold of Liberty
And yet has nothing, Ignorance the real
One Fraticide since Cain, Envy the asp
That stings itself to anguish, Avarice whose palsied grasp

Is in its extent stiffened, moneyed Greed
For whose dull appetite men waste away
Amid the whirr of wheels and are the seed
Of things which slay their sower, these each day
Sees rife in England, and the gentle feet
Of Beauty tread no more the stones of each unlovely street.

What even Cromwell spared is desecrated
By **** and worm, left to the stormy play
Of wind and beating snow, or renovated
By more destructful hands:  Time’s worst decay
Will wreathe its ruins with some loveliness,
But these new Vandals can but make a rain-proof barrenness.

Where is that Art which bade the Angels sing
Through Lincoln’s lofty choir, till the air
Seems from such marble harmonies to ring
With sweeter song than common lips can dare
To draw from actual reed? ah! where is now
The cunning hand which made the flowering hawthorn branches bow

For Southwell’s arch, and carved the House of One
Who loved the lilies of the field with all
Our dearest English flowers? the same sun
Rises for us:  the seasons natural
Weave the same tapestry of green and grey:
The unchanged hills are with us:  but that Spirit hath passed away.

And yet perchance it may be better so,
For Tyranny is an incestuous Queen,
****** her brother is her bedfellow,
And the Plague chambers with her:  in obscene
And ****** paths her treacherous feet are set;
Better the empty desert and a soul inviolate!

For gentle brotherhood, the harmony
Of living in the healthful air, the swift
Clean beauty of strong limbs when men are free
And women chaste, these are the things which lift
Our souls up more than even Agnolo’s
Gaunt blinded Sibyl poring o’er the scroll of human woes,

Or Titian’s little maiden on the stair
White as her own sweet lily and as tall,
Or Mona Lisa smiling through her hair,—
Ah! somehow life is bigger after all
Than any painted angel, could we see
The God that is within us!  The old Greek serenity

Which curbs the passion of that

.let's begin: i've been watching youtube haemorrhage over the past few years (4 / 5 in total) and... i do still enjoy the sort of cabaret weimar associated with criticalcondition when comapred to beanie hat tim pool... sorry: i just like a bit of cabaret, i know that comedy is translated in the western lands by stand-up monologues, but in germany and poland: cabaret is the toy assurance to compensate the justifications for theatre or opera... i like criticalcondition, trans-, ******: my my, how did the chemistry prefixes of attachement groups of a benzene ring overpower bio-realism? imagine a blocked toilet in terms of hinduism / buddhism in terms of the metaphysics of reincarnation... well: metaphysics by their great culinary understanding implies: a return to the same debacle, perhaps only slightly elevated... we have already reached a post- gott ist tot scenario of metaphysics... gott is quiet apparent, since the ancient greeks believed that "shamed" men would come back as women: now? the women did a shortcut... they said: tod ist tot... wouldn't that be the case? a blocked toilet, well... if god has to die first, then death itself has to die, ergo: tod ist tot! ha ha... imagine... to think of the glamorous concept of eastern theology as nothing more than a plumber's day-shift... looks like the toilet is blocked... since... men are not spawning into female form after death, instead, deciding to spawn back into male form with a female "brain"... who is that god of mischief in hinduism? oh... look! Aditi! well it's not an isolated case, is it? i once picked up a thai surprise from a park bench, played her some jazz, ****** her in the garden... bangkok ladyboys are the duran duran of 1980s electro-puppy-pop! once god dies, death follows suit... after all... death is (a) shadow of (the) god... blocked toilet metaphysics, all the brahmin as running wild, naked, psychotic: but the lesser men were not supposed to know they were reborn into female bodies, there was that safety net in place to: let them reincarnate with an amnesia principle! what's happening?! the women are raiding up the ranks?! contrapoints compared to tim pool? sorry beanie-boy... you're not the beastie... quiet... i'd love to b.j. that make-up off from contrapoints... problem being... i love when a ****** speaks so much sense... but... hands... i find a woman's hands too be the most ****** aspect of her body... 4/5... that's a fraction... for my five knuckles in terms of hand size, ***** "envy" and what my five knuckles look like to a woman's 4? you get the picture... there is also another fraction... 72 genders?! wha-?! i see gender in the 3/2 fraction... a woman can satisfy three men... the ****, the **** the mouth... a man... can only satisfy 2... the **** and the mouth... oh... wait... 3/3... someone can be giving him a b.j. while he's giving him a b.j..... it's still a blockage of reincarnation though... the greeks believed the lesser man was to be reborn in a "lesser" body... ****, i always forget how the ratio works... i always think: 1 man has 3 options of entry, 3 women have 1 point of entry each... but fraction is wonky though... in that... a woman can entertain three variations of entry: mouth, ****, ****... but a man has to entertain two points of entry and one point of insertion... so the fraction still stands at 3/2... which makes the islamic celestial harem nonsense... unless equipped with an exess of res extensa ****** to satiate the hunger of 72 virgins... a ****** gambit if you ask me... 72 virgins sounds more like a headache than what Solomon forsake in owning for the queen of Shēba... king! Solomon! after all the *******, enough wisdom suddenly trickled into his head, and he chose the route of the monogamy of birds! mind you: whatever wisdom king! Solomon ever had to begin with... i would still favor king David... i like a man with a distrust of women and having an unadulterated desire for music as second to none medicinal property to cure existential ailments; i tried *******, no good... sure, great exercise... esp. with prostitutes... but an in depth analysis of the perpetuated banality of life and how to learn to masquerade it behind a veil of seemingly banal? a harem will not help, but music will. even nietzsche understood this... criticalcondition: i do actually fancy him it her they... she does have that: je ne sais quoi air... weimar cabaret "revised"... not quiet the switz cabaret dada voltaire... but all i know is the number of holes of points of insertion and the fact that i have hands the size that could hold a basketball in one... and how... oh, wow! i really came late to the asian fetish party late... here, have some grenades! **** ying, cat meng, na mu han, you mi, ni ye teng, ai sayama, hoshina mizuki, ayaka noda, (l)im ji hye, lie fei er, (barbie) ke er... ergo? this whole asian fetish scene? am i looking at dolls? i'm not even sure... am i white, by comparison to these procelain babushkas?! i'm not white: orange man bad! i thought so too: i'm... piglet! the i'm not white: these girls are... and the funny thing is, the "funny" thing, is? i don't have to see much more beside the cleavage or the ******* or the thighs to... hey! i'm a late bloomer to this asiatic fetish... side-tracked by the european transgender ******* and the thai surprise ladyboys... what is **** what isn't ****: that, really depends on how much you rely on your imagination... if a sight of white, porcelain cleavage gets you off... who the hell needs the whole "show"... after all... even the niqab is a game on how to arouse the male libido... it's pretty hard to be aroused by a fully exposed female torso like some maasai ivory beauty... then the "said" objects are more functional and designated for feeding purposes... than ***** *******... aren't they?! oh i can see a revision of the niqab... imagine this in saudi arabia... both the eyes are not hidden from view, as isn't the mouth! batman 2."oh"... oh i don't like these new communists in the west... white... priv. who, that japanese?! i'm not white, i said it already and i'll say it again: i'm not a porcelain doll! talk to the **** about white privilege... they're the ones with milk veils... my "white privilege" is only associated to having blond hair, green or blue eyes... it has nothing to do with... skin!

i’m suspicious of the ones that say: without telling the truth
we can moralise, by not stating the truth
we can allow ourselves falsehood in the prime
instinct to provide replicas of ourselves
without truth of two subject interacting,
but merely the truth of two objects interacting
reducible into the dwarf of darwinism
that speaks: over-sexualise and feel less encountered
by understanding the opposite!
so much is true in this era - with the english poodle
waggling in frenzies for the americans to spectate and applaud...
i’ve had to become a german in england,
the sort that might be liked by nietzschean arrogance,
but apart from that i’m working on how
certain people simply use words rather than letters,
how they can never use the shovels and pickaxes,
how this congregation of atheists at comic stand-up shows
is doing my head in: a theological mid-life crises,
this blatant take on theology using the logic:
from monkey you came, to monkeying you shall return...
now that trends like the crown all animals have,
all animals already unique do not need to replicate consciously,
but man is stumbling into wasting his conscious on replication,
on plagiarism... it’s so odd... so so odd! why would man
waste his consciousness to simply invoke replication?
where’s the self in that, the anti-frankenstein story so powerful
he does not wish to do anything other than marvel at
the connectivity of the bone to the nerve to the muscle?
the 20th century gave birth militant atheism -
the 21st century is labouring with a different kind of atheism -
the sort of atheism that says no barriers exist between master and servant
as between worm and pigeon - even though
the depression of the master is opposed to the servant’s depression
that he only spots analogues within the framework of
synonymity with other masters... ‘why are we so depressed?’
asked master a, ‘i have no idea,’ answered master b over lunch.
in the lower decks of the ship servant a says to servant b -
- ‘god, i rowed all day long, i’m so ****** tired!
no thought will keep me awake.’
- ‘that’s true, i’m knackered also, broken limbs of my effort
like a chestnut, no thought will keep me awake either,
lucky we exhaust the body.’
- ‘too true, with the body exhausted the mind is never disputed
never disputed by not having origins in thinking
but rather having origins in the body.’
- ‘verily, i rather our fate than the masters’ fate.’
- ‘why?’
- ‘as you said, our’s is the story of ****** demands,
their’s is a story of thought’s demands,
meaning they exhaust their mind in the accesses
thought provides, it’s like a secondary body we have no knowledge of,
they are exhausted by thinking because their body is not exhausted.’
- ‘makes sense.’
- 'hence their malady of melancholia and our as simple exhaustion.'
- 'where’s the buffer?'
- 'in the olympians, the discus throwers, the most positive lot, and due to this, the easiest
to break down from high positivity; they have no awareness
of complex thinking and are quickly undermined with all this sports’ psychology!'
- 'true to the burning tire... it's all dietary awareness and muscle bulk with them after a loss.'
- 'indeed, as our's is with aesop dreamily awaiting a freedom that’s an anarchy,as translated from aesop's fables into
spartacus' resolve.'
- 'ah yes, that old spartan revolt in the roman empire.'
so like i said, i do know that darwinism is the new super cool sensibility,
taking into account more than 10,000 years of history
and talking about it for 2 hours wishing that something
spectacular might happen tomorrow, or any other given day...
but like i said previously... darwinism just killed history...
outside the realm of journalism we’re talking millions of years...
so why would i give a **** if it’s a friday the 23rd of october in the imaginary year 2015?
well if you put crocodile into a pile of hyenas you’ll probably
get a a cuckoo mixed with a squid because of the beak shared by the two...
i know, atheism is cool, for now,
but when the quantum j provides the classical physics’ objects like jupiter
you’ll ask what the quantum of j is... and i’ll say... full-stop...
that’s because, perhaps, i never use language as:
copy - work - paste - with - copy - me - paste - on - copy - this - paste - one,
but rather...
w - grammatical arithmetic (g.a.) - o - g.a. - r - g.a. - k,
because no one can tell me that the letter j
is uniform in the context of i or k...
as the quantum phonetics of uttering the word
onomatopoeia... is no different from uttering the word bull...
so many variables of spotting the quantum physics
in pronunciation... so many varying levels of required energy
to utter j or k... onomatopoeia or bull -
so... what's the antonym of quantum - the maximum
amount of any physical entity involved in an interaction -
i know that poets speak of grains of sand = no. of stars
and that the mathematicians use the curtain of infinity
to digress... but finding the maximum will be harder
given that there will be no socratic knowledge to use as canvas...
i.e. nothing;
added to the fact that there’s a non-differential quantum
that makes ë and em almost identical in terms of the least energy used,
this humanistic paradox of bonding means there is no unique human
sound that doesn’t borrow another human sound to execute a phoneticism,
otherwise ë and em translate as eh and humming anti-treble of the lips, or finger licking mmm of kentucky.
actually... we have the opposite of quantum physics...
the body functions within an ~37ºC emission...
there are four seasons in a year... the earth's orbit is 365 days,
i just took all the known macro units
and consolidated them in the micro unit of joules undifferentiated
in terms of observable "energy."

I. When I was 5, I thought recess was probably the best thing ever invented. Until the first autumn rainfall, when the sky opened up and unleashed it's sorrow unto the earth. The children were kept inside that day. As the storm thundered on around us, we ran to play on the other side of the classroom. The boys charged to the shelf with legos and blocks, while the girls lined up at the miniature kitchen. I followed them to the tiny toy oven, even though, secretly, I thought those lincoln logs looked really fun.

II. When I was 6, I thought my first grade teacher was the sweetest woman to ever have lived. Then, one day she lined us to to go outside, calling out, "Boys on one side, girls on the other" reminding of us of a divide between genders that we did not understand. Marking off differences on a checklist that none of us had read yet.

III. When I was 7, like most little girls I daydreamed of the perfect wedding. The part I played over and over in my head was my brother walking me down the aisle, "giving me away". Because even in the second grade, some part of me knew that I belonged to the men in my life.

IV. When I was 8, I learned that the praise I'd receive from the boys I called my brothers would always be conditional. No matter what award I received, how fast I ran, how tough I fought, how smart I was, I'd always be "pretty good for a girl". And that is never a compliment.

V. When I was 9, the YMCA told me I had to stop playing the sport I'd loved for 5 years because I was a girl. I took my first feminist stand by quitting, because I don't care what they say, softball and baseball are not the same thing.

VI. When I was 10, my brother informed me that the day I brought home a boyfriend was the day he bought a gun. Because that's how you protect your property.

VII. When I was 11, a boy ran up to me on the playground and told me I was cute. For a moment, I felt confident, a feeling that was foreign to me. Until the boy and his friend started laughing uncontrollably, as if they couldn't believe that I'd ever think that was true. I cried a lot that day because I hadn't yet realized that my self worth wasn't directly proportional to how many boys found me attractive.

VIII. When I was 12, my aunt gave me my first make up kit for my birthday. When my grandmother tried to force me to wear it, I refused, yelling, "It's my face!" She proceeded to tell me that I'd never get a boyfriend with that attitude. After all, who was I to want to be in control of my own body?

IX. When I was 13, I thought gym was a subject invented by sadistic hell fiends created just to torture teenage girls. It was the hottest day of the year, and I'd just ran a mile, so I opted not to change out of my tank top before continuing on to my next class. A teacher cornered me at my locker, advising me to put on a jacket before I became a distraction to the boys.

X. When I was 14, I confessed to my mother the wanderlust inside of me. Exclaiming about travelling to new places, having new experiences. That's when she looked me dead in the eye and told me to always take someone with me. Preferably, a man. I couldn't bring myself to be angry. We both knew what happened to women alone on the streets, and I felt bad for the way I made her eyes shine with worry each time I left the house without her.

XI. I am 15, and I walk with my fists clenched and my head down. I am always conscious of what clothes I wear and whether or not they could attract "the wrong kind of attention". I attempt to shield myself from the world, but I can feel my barriers cracking with each terrifying statistic, each late night news story, each girl that was never given justice. The world is a war zone, and every woman must put her armor on before walking outside. My life has been one battle after the next. I am a 15 year old war veteran, and have the scars to prove it. I've learned from my experiences and am left with just one question:

At what age does the war end?

No I'm not depressed because I'm fat.
No I'm not depressed because I'm being bullied.
No I'm not depressed because I didn't get what I wanted.
But I am depressed but only because of the simple fact that the person I want to be and the person I am are two different genders.
No one wants to help a transgender child.
No one cares if we have feelings or not.
No one understands that the wrong pronouns can upset us.

But when they do...its too late.

Filled with so many wonders.
Mystery as to its insides:
A jack in the box ready to jump at its first chance,
A barren desert with the occasional cactus,
A whirlwind of colors blended together
A collection of identical grey, or
A small feeble fairy shielded from the world.

The closet,
A corner of the world
Protected from the daggers of reality.
The reality that so many fear
The closet,
That can easily turn its own daggers
onto its refugee.

The closet
Where the magical
rainbow-colored people,
Are surrounded by clouds.
Hugging their beautiful diverse bodies
Its warmth emitting the only comfort known.
Acting as armor for those scared of the unknown
Armor from the strikes of the evil
The strikes of the familiars
The strikes of the outsiders

The closet,
Where hiding the secrets within a soul
Is normal
Where blank pieces of paper lie,
screaming to be colored rainbow.
Screaming to walk with pride

Blank pieces of paper in secret
Protecting its true, bold and
vibrant colors
Crying to be seen
Crying to be honored

The closet,
Its clouds turning into hurricanes
Destroying everything in its path
Millions of questions,
Millions of concerns circling,
Circling into a pit of despair

The eye of the hurricane,
In a tranquil place
Lies an animated child
So small yet so strong
Hiding its flamboyant skin with dull clothes
Surrounded by chaos
And grey.
A hurricane of stress and fear
Fear of being out
Fear of being exposed
Fear of the unknown

The animated child,
Wanting to leave the secure place of a closet
Wanting to march with pride
Wanting to share its colors with the somber world

The closet,
A space where a weak small flower bud
Is waiting to blossom, waiting for its time
Waiting to spreads its soft-spoken petals
Waiting for its petals to stand with strength and poise

The closet,
where fairies,
Rainbow colored people,
Blank pieces of paper wanting to be colored rainbow,
Animated children,
And glorious flowers
Are given the space to reflect on what resides within one’s soul

The closet where
A sense of stability and security are ensured
Where true colors develop and are protected from the large erasers
wanting to keep plain colors, plain people
Where their once weak stance develops into a stance with pride and respect

Pride in their colors and flags
Pride in who they may love,
whether same, opposite, or multiple genders
Pride in what gender fits best,
whether male, female, or anywhere in-between
Pride in what pronouns truly describe their soul,
Whether it be she/her, he/him, they/them
Pride in how they love,
whether it be eros, intimate love, or agape, unconditional love
Pride in who and what they are

Pride to stand tall against those with conservative views
Pride to say that love is not confined between a man and a woman
Pride to say multiple genders exist
Pride to say *** does not always mean love
Pride to expose themselves to the true evils and malicious actions
Pride to fight for their God-given rights.
Pride to marry and to love who they want
Pride to say the closet was a space they grew out of
And learned from

The closet that gave them the confidence and strength
The closet that protected them until they were ready to
Fly  
Fly through a large city,
Fly over a field of flowers,
Or a tall forest,
Or the vast sky,
Spreading their passionate colors
Bringing life to the monotonous world

12mn: I was babaw. I made a "funny" joke. You didn't laugh. Usual. I made a funner joke. And this time, you laughed.

1am: I changed our chat emoji to a nose. You realized you were turning 17 in 23 hours. I asked you what you learned from this year, and you said "I hate people", and I wished you didn't hate me.

2am: I was asking you what picture I should tweet for your birthday. Why didn't we get a picture last night. You're laughing at me for wearing the huge *** NASA shirt you gave me. (Thank you a bunch for that.)

3am: I asked you how the Mcdo was. You said "good". My tummy grumbled.

4am: You asked me if I was up and honestly I wasn't – you just woke me up. But conversations at this hour are the best so why not? You sent me some songs. And my groggy self listened to them half asleep. You said 20 hours til you turn 17.

5am: Kuya Soy just left. I am sad. You said jmsn at this hour is great – and he is. You're now gonna try to sleep (**** it, just when I was awake). I asked you what time you were born so I could greet you on that time. But **** it was at 7 am, still, I set my alarm. Goodnight and goodbye, for the mean time.

6am: I write because you exist. Woah that dramatic effect though (just kidding). But really, I am awake, writing my greeting for you. I fell asleep with my notes open.

10am: I was still asleep, you messaged me in reply to "I write because you exist", you said same.

12nn: I just woke up and I just saw your message.

1pm: I followed you with my 2016 account. You followed me back.

2pm: You sent me a hugot quote about walking away or trying harder. I think I'm going for the try harder option. You never know how close you actually are to your goal, right? You said you're turning 17 in less than 12 hours.

3pm: Easy to talk to, hard to understand.

4pm: I learned that your mom's name is Nilda. Hi Tita pls like me half jk. Actually not jk.

5pm: You told me everyone was making 365 accounts. Actually, it's 366.

6pm: I told you I was sad about kinder eggs having genders. "idk lol ugh HAHAHA"

7pm: I asked you if you were okay, you said yes. (And I wished that you'd never lie to me whenever I ask if you're okay)

8pm: Some ungrateful btch be tweeting about not wanting to get food for Christmas. You say "BRUH FOOD IS ONE OF THE GOOD GIFTS MY *****", I laughed.

9pm: You made me listen to Jidenna (aheheh ahas) and I'm reminded of your great music taste.

11pm: You told me your family was fighting. This is your "worst christmas". I want so desperately to do anything to make you feel better, and I am trying to help you.

12mn: Still trying. I wanna hug you to absorb all your sadness.

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.

Why when we ask someone their orientation,
Why do we look down on bisexuals?
we see their attraction to both genders as a negative,
When we should be free to be and love whoever we choose,
Without this bi hatred dragging us down,
It's unfair and downright ugly,
To assume the chances of someone cheating is higher if they're bi,
No a loving, commited bi person is not bound to cheat
Oh there's more people to cheat with if they like both genders.
If they're commited to their partner that should be enough.
No, they're still trying to figure themselves out, it's a phase.
Give them a break, ****** orientation and attraction is fluid.
It can't be guessed or pigeon holed into one category.
Just choose already,
Like hell will I choose because you tell me to,
I'll choose when I fall in love.
Be that with a man or woman.

There's a rainbow in the corner of my window
it must be saying something.
The clouds are gay! The lakes are gay!
The trees are gay! The airplane is gay!
The flight attendant is gay!
Houses hidden in the hills below look up
and wonder if I'm gay too.
The sun hiding at the edge of a cloud
tells me the ocean's gay didn't we know?
She has a fluid sexuality and loses her
temper sometimes we call it flooding.
The sky declared itself androgynous
and changes genders every twelve hours.
The sunset is proudly bisexual
and displays both pink and blue every evening
as it heads to the club and the sky switches genders.
The city of San Francisco is gay!
and the rainbow disappears.

Confession:
I'm not entirely a boy.
I'm in between genders right now.
Somewhere found in the cracks and crevices
underneath our ever crumbling binary.

A toss up between a proud queer girl,
and a fairy gay boy.
Yes sir,
But not a man.
Along the lines of
Prince and Princess,
Both King and Queen.

Don't call me a *** or **** -
Call me Genderfuck.
A concept you can't quite pinpoint,
At least it's an accurate depiction of your ignorance.

Genderpunk;
an identity wrapped up in style.
Androgyne -
A word that is not entirely girl
Not entirely boy,
But has elements of both.

I'm pushing away from women
when people put it on me.
It's dysphoric and uncomfortable.
So I run towards guy,
Phonetically and conceptually.

I want something other than human,
Not exactly person,
Alien, celestial or ethereal being
of which there is no words necessary.
Something...other.

But Agender rejects the concept entirely.
And I do not want to abandon the idea
that there is a word out there for me.
A community like me.

And before I hear any rhetoric about
having 'too many labels',
Let me just say:
If cats have taught me anything,
There is a huge difference between
Being put in a box,
And putting yourself in a box.

My ideal gender is something like feeling
part women, part dude -
not entirely male -
and part non-binary,
All simultaneously.

This may come as a surprise
But I do not deny my lady-like qualities.
I see strong, realistic female
representation
And I rejoice.
I feel part of that team.

I experience sexism and misogyny,
and I recognize how others perceive me;
as a girl.

Well in the context of a ******* girl relationship
Girlfriends doesn't seem that bad.
Being a butch lesbian,
or gay girl -
a feminine boy,
bisexual guy.
Though, I'm never a man.

Just something dancing along the edges,
Picking and choosing the flowers I am drawn to.
Ultimately something queer.

I want more access to words,
different types of non-binary,
A broader third category.
Six, Eleventh and,
Twentieth gender options.

Otherwise I'm caught gendering myself, always.
God or Goddess?
Mermaid or Merman?
Sure there's also merperson, merbabe,
godev, princev...

Referring to oneself - zeself?
As a magical being works.
Fae, Faerie,
Fae, Fem(me), Faer
pronouns would be cool
I just don't want to fully surrender
to being a girl.

Even though I know
there's no shame in it,
it still feels wrong,

It's misgendering
when I'm called "Miss" or "She".
I feel like crawling out if my skin
when I'm being forced into anything
womanly

Even though I have no
real quarrel with the concept.
I'm just uncomfortable with pronouns
and all the words around it.

I am anti-girl, negagirl,
the opposite of female
but not necessarily guy.
I am running away from cis-ness,
Cis-ciety.

And that's okay,
It's absolutely alright to feel this way.
The world told you what you were entirely
Based on your reproductive organs,
And doesn't that just sound a little funny?

Being trans doesn't have to mean
being at war with your body.
It doesn't mean you're born into a special group
A cool club, where others are barred access.

It means thinking critically
and wanting to redefine, redesign,
The way you are seen,
The way you see yourself,
and reclaim something
that was taken from you.

Folx, gender is fun.
It is fluid, and it changes,
it ages,
It starts to mean different things.

What you feel for now
doesn't have to be forever.
Move past the boundaries
others have set for you.

I encourage you to find your own
Trans doesn't have to be right
or wrong for you,
That's up to you to discover.
Just know you have options.

There's 7 billion people on this planet
So that's the possibility for 7 billion genders
And sexes.
Yes, that's a spectrum too.

***** and ***** are not the only thing
That defines you.
Think critically about the things
people have force fed you.

As for me,
I am a different breed of dude.
Not dad or father,
nor lady or daughter.

I fit with brother, guy, sir & gentlemen.
Call me fae, goth, punk, merhunk
and royalty.

Today I am a blank slate
A canvas I always have the potential to recreate.
Call me Damon.
That is my gender of the day.

Do you even know what you stand for?
Do we even know what we stand for?
As the latest inequalities between races, classes, and genders sweep by my generation, we stand one-by-one

I wonder how many rose because the person next to them did

Oh how I'd love that
and from a San Francisco organization no less
a month in the Santa Cruz mountains, no less
the most liberal city in America no less
and last year's winner has his picture displayed
and it is not innovative or interesting or shocking but all too predictable
Like something I saw how long now has it been?  twenty five years ago...
how many times have I seen this picture
a white guy, looking very much the suffering, creating artiste
handsome, like an actor, but not an actor, a creator of meaning
of art, and he can't smile, but looks away from the camera
mimicking an ad for J. Crew
it's amazing how only white men can write about the important things in the world
and the background, how many times before have I seen it
a graffiti sprinkled nowhere in an urban jungle
somewhere where preppy white guys never go
street art, street communication created by people
who don't see this concrete as an exotic backdrop for their egoistic posing
but as a part of their lives, as part of their meaning, their world
and he stands there, in front of it,
Mr. Screenwriter, the gulf of culture separating him from that background
spans the entire country, or an entire universe
but the implication of the picture is: he is home here
this is who he is and he can emcompass everything, since white men
as we know, have a magic ability to understand and synthesize everyone
all genders, all races, all religions
the rest of us are merely stuck in our own myopic little worlds
of gender, race, socio-economic status
but these spanner of time and space and human difference, they can be anyone
they can understand and represent anyone
So I look at the picture
and think, I could apply, but I'm busy during the blissful month of the residency
but how dissapointing, that I feel looking at this picture, now online of course
that it is the same picture that I looked at over twenty five years ago
pinned to a film school wall
in Los Angeles, in New York, in those edgy more conservative places
and it is the same guy.  the white screenwriter artist who will write about me
and others and it will be a lie
and we are excluded.  all the rest of the human race.
but what he writes will be exalted as truth
when I know, that no matter how time he spends wandering
the foriegn worlds of ghettos and genders
the one thing he knows, the only thing he knows how to write about is
white guys, because he is no superhuman
he is like us.  He will write about white guys and there will be
more films about white guys, who are supposed to represent all of us
but they don't, because they are only human,
and can only represent themselves.

We get put into groups by the colour of our skin,
Judged if percieved as 'too fat' or 'too thin',
Singled out for looking different to them all,
Perhaps you are seen as slightly too tall,
Name calling and looks spotting is all the rage,
Ridiculous really in this day and age,
Both genders 'beauty' reviewed time and time,
This generation is certainly out of line,
They define peoples beauty by the medias conception,
Letting it alter their personal perception,
The pain they cause to the people they prey among,
Your faith in humanity would nearly be gone,
Who should show these people they are doing wrong,
What they have been causing all along,
Societies segregation and marginalisation,
Creates for us a serious realisation,
History is repeating again and again,
This same thing was happening way back when.
To be yourself today, is something they tell us is not okay,
We need to stop these people , tell them, soon it will be our day.

Once upon a time, there was a frog.
It was just a normal frog, nothing more, nothing less.
- - -

One day, it caught a fly and was going to eat it when it shouted:
"Don’t eat me!! I’m a magical fly. I’ll give you some of my magic!"

The frog couldn’t understand what magic does.
It was contented with just eating and surviving and reproducing, it didn’t need magic.
And so it ate the magical fly.

The next morning, when he woke up, he felt taller than usual.
When he saw his reflection in the pond, he stumbled backwards in shock.
He turned into a human!

After awhile, he realized that the magical fly caused this.
He wandered around aimlessly and stumbled upon a playground.
A human boy much smaller than him was reading a book with a picture of a frog on its cover.
Not knowing about human politeness, he snatched it.
He flipped through the pages and tore out the page of a female frog kissing a human man.
If he is a male-frog-turned-human, then he must kiss a female frog?
That’s what he must do.

He rushed back to the pond and realized he couuldn’t tell the genders of the frogs there.
Frantically, he kissed every frog he could catch.
After a moment of silence, nothing happened.

Confused, he went back to look at the picture again.
Maybe he should try kissing a female human instead?
With that thought in mind, he set out to look for female humans to kiss.
Unfortunately, every one of them pushed him away, and one even hurt his face with her hand.

Even more confused than before, he sat slumped against a tree.
He sat there the whole day, watching people who walked past him.
He didn’t realize this before, but humans have their own set of social rules.
He had to practise these rules before he could get close to a human and go back to his simple frog life again.

A month later, the frog-man managed to assimilate himself into human society.
He worked odd jobs and managed to befriend a man who is a university french lecturer he met at a cafe.
In fact, the frog-man was the one who approached him after learning about the term “french kiss”.
It has to be called that because only french people kiss, right?
Through him, he could probably find a french female and return to being a frog!

The frog-man found himself closely attached to the french man.
They would often eat, drink and talk till late at night.
They even had some impromptu ballroom dancing together when both were very drunk.
The frog-man had a lot of fun with him.
He thought, “this is what ‘friendship’ must be.”

One night, the frog-man was invited to the french man’s house for dinner.
It was a candlelight dinner, which was supposedly odd for two men, but the frog-man wasn’t familiar enough with human society to realize this.

After dinner, the french man switched on some jazz music and slowly approached him.
His eyes were locked on the frog-man and the frog-man started to feel odd.
The french man started tilting his head towards him.
The frog-man was shocked and recognized this gesture.
He was trying to kiss him!

For some reason, the frog-man’s heart started pounding loudly.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
He knew that this was wrong.
How could two males have such feelings for each other?
How will they reproduce and continue the human race?
"This is wrong! This is wrong! This is wrong!" He shouted in his head.
But for some reason, he couldn’t turn away.
Because it felt right.

Before he knew it, their lips collided, and when he opened his eyes, he was smaller than before.
He was a frog again.
Bewildered, he quickly clambered and hopped out of his house and hid in a nearby pond.

"It’s finally over. I’m a frog again." He sighed in relief.
He was happy again, to be back in his simple days as a frog.
He has to be happy, even if he’s not.
He has to be happy.
But he’s not.
Because there was no way he could turn into a human again.

He often found himself risking his life just to check on how the french man is doing.
Whenever the french man looked sad, he himself felt sad.

Back at his pond home, the female frogs didn’t interest him.
He couldn’t think about being with a female sexually again.

The male frog was shamed by the other frogs for refusing to help in carrying on the frog line.

Eventually, after spending an eternity alone, he found a way to do it by himself.

- - -
Once upon a time, there was a frog.
It was just a frog that went through love and loss, and in the midst of that, found its calling.
It was just a normal, asexual frog.

Consider the genders as separate
each with a mask set by fate
this would be the funny if it were not
for the horrors set loose once more
roles ascribed to a ***
bending a knee to do their part
though supplication will destroy
when power shunts the outcome’s goal

to save the weak from themselves
monstrous babies without resolve
unable to slake appetites
instead the other must find a way
sacrifice to this goal
placed on an altar with all around
bending heads in a fervent chant
the blood will let to the man

reject these offers of suicide
a living death while alive
saving those who are misled
by the group’s droning lies
while traditional may show bias
ascribing tasks by outward look
this is hardly carved in stone
though society would like it so

consider genders are divorced
from slaughter chutes that serve discord
when both genders are abused
by the dogma of past rules
sacrifice will have its place
alongside love and clayed feed
each *** with pursuing the very best
while being flawed in life’s eyes.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181202.

So I hid it
Took it like a written confession and
swallowed it
Decades of genders, females and
males screaming, as I melted down
the word on my tongue they had fought to keep,
that they had killed for and won.
As I joined a flock of sheep who wouldn't
accept a goat
Who didn't want to listen when I wrote down
that I believed in the allegedly frown-worthy
opinion that equality should exist.
That it should be taught right from the yolk
of existence.
That it's regulation requires persistence.

They told me that prejudice was a myth
Ironic, they also told me I shouldn't exist
Told me I was lesbian, like it was an
insult, when I decided to stage a revolt and
mark the popular girl in netball
and win.
self high five
Oh dear, what a schoolgirl sin to
perpetrate.
I was taught to take hate by the masses who
yelled that
the classes of acceptance
were unnecessary

Popular girl: small correction, although
I cannot say you personally give me
a feminine *******, I'm bisexual, get it right.
Also examine the fact that you thought I'd only fight
because I wanted you.
When in fact I both loathe and pity you, you
do not understand your worth, and you don't
give proper respect to the earth of your
elders.
Who have handed down shoulder to shoulder
something different from the everyday pain.
They've handed down the hope that their strivings
were not vain, and one day this war will
cease.

The smoke of a pen, not
a gun, calling
peace.

So, I am a feminist and I call for release.

Love is love.
There is no definition to say you ' cannot be this way ' if you love a man or a woman or both or none at all - whoever you embed your heart within  has nothing to do with anyone but you.
Love is love.
Fall for the sunset in her eyes and the laugh she has on autumn evenings, find a world within her soft skin.
Love is love.
Choose his comfort, the way your frail frame mirrors in his body and like a portrait; you're a work of art.
Love is love.
Dance in the compassion of both genders and be a stream of a purple in a world of blue and pink  paint.

Love is love, regardless.

my friend said she’s
Quirky
Angsty
And different
She’s not she’s insecure
And I don’t mean any offence bu that statement
But she thinks the chains around her neck make her appeal to her abuser
And the fact that she’s never, really, properly drunk and yet pretends she’s wild and has lives lives she hasn’t
She says “ if you ever need someone to be a crackhead I’m right here”
She’s not
She’s insecure
She has sisters
I have brothers
And although we’re no longer defined by genders I think we are now
She wants to be like her younger sister
But she’s not popular like her
She lacks for charisma
But is sweet and kind
She thinks “cage the elephant” is indie music
And thinks listening to the strokes makes her cool
And that turning of capital letters on her phone somehow makes her “not like other girls”
She’s wrong
I don’t do any of that **** and I don’t pretend to be quirky, angsty, and different
And all the boys prefer me.
And yet I’m insecure
She should go back to fan-girling over Shakespeare
And writing books and poetry for fun
You’re not
Quirky
Angsty
And different you’re just insecure
Ok yeah good. ?  !
Got it perf.
Vibes. Cool,,, lel!’v

Sitting here, next to you,
Side by side, as idle equals,
A girls heart is not as tough,
A boy's hands are just as rough.
We play and laugh, you make me cry,
I truly think I might just die.

Sitting here, next to you,
Side by side, as idle equals,
Gonna lose me at the drop of a hat,
No, I’m worth more than that.
Make me think I’m letting you down when I say no,
I think I’ll lose you altogether if I say go.

Sitting here, next to you,
Side by side, as idle equals,
You say that I am special, but we both know I’m not,
And you get what it is, that notch that you want.
I forgive you, and go on, with my unforgetting mind,
Don’t you know that I’m really not gonna be just fine?

You start to wonder what it was that you did that blew it,
The truth is we know, what you did and why you do it.
Make me feel like nothing, like trash, like ****,
Funny how I’m the one who always takes the hit.
And sitting here, next to you, two lives whose manor will never cross,
I know now, that we will never be idle equals.