"transitioned" poems
I began my life active with sports and other meaningless award systems.
Girl's recreational soccer, basketball, bike riding, math competitions, the works
Today, I feel weightless
useless would be best fit
As if all the running, jumping, yelling, point requiring statuses pushed the light out of my transitioned life.
I find myself sitting in one area often, as one may do
But different than sitting on a bench or sitting actively in company of others
I sit wondering exactly who I am looking at
Why am I empty lifeless longing towards an imaginary spot in the distant wall
I imagine some events in these minutes of stoic despair
Hearing goes weak and frozen, in this second, while I continue my Sunday brunch with non-conformative attitudes and her mother, the sweet old dementia
I don't mean to have their meetings often, I must of first acquainted as the first grade trauma or the Broadway rendition of Alone Thoughts featuring the Broken High School Years.
I hope to work the wheels again, to end these meetings and to live for once, in the midst of motion and pause.
This time, stopping and starting as I please.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 3:57 PM UTC
Dear Ronald Bilius Weasley
No matter what others say
I will always be your fan
You are such a marvellous character
Not perhaps, a perfect one
But a character with flaws
So real, and so beautiful
That we can totally relate to it
In your first year at Hogwarts
You played a game of chess
In such a magnificent manner
That even the Russians of the Muggle world
Could not have done any better
In your second year at Hogwarts
You faced your greatest fears
With a courage and nerve
That Godric Gryffindor would have been proud of
For the sake of your best mates
In your third year at Hogwarts
You almost ruined a friendship
For the sake of a rat and a broomstick
But you made amends for it
By standing up to a notorious murderer
That too with a broken leg
Again, for the sake of your best mate
In your fourth year at Hogwarts
Again, there was a misunderstanding
That threatened to derail a strong friendship
But you were there for Harry
When it truly mattered
There was also some ugly ****** jealousy
As your teenage hormones took centrestage
But at least you got an inkling
That you and Hermione
Were made for each other
In your fifth year at Hogwarts
There was a lot you had to put up with
The constant bullying of the Slytherins
Especially during Quidditch matches
The temper tantrums of your best friend
And finally, the evil Dolores Jane Umbridge
Initially, due to your nerves and insecurities
Your Quidditch performances went from bad to worse
But then, you finally showed us
The stuff you were made of
Saving goals left, right and centre
And to cap it all
You bravely fought a dozen Death Eaters
Yet again, for the sake of your best friend
Finally, we come to the war
Due to your never-ending insecurities
And anxiety for your family
Worsened by a dreadful locket
That contained a part of Voldemort's soul
You briefly deserted your best mates
But returned when it mattered the most
Even saving Harry's life in the process
And then, as you destroyed that darned locket
You finally conquered your fears
And transitioned successfully to manhood
Finally, during the Battle of Hogwarts
You showed us your sensitive side
A side that we had never seen before
As you displayed your concern for the house-elves
Precipitating your first kiss with Hermione
Later on, you lost your dear brother
But continued to soldier on bravely
Even standing up to Voldemort himself
Hence, dear Ronald Bilius Weasley
No matter what others say
I will always be your fan
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 9:28 AM UTC
in the beginning of my first
year of high school, i was
the girl with messy hair
who tried to off herself
in summer's past, the one
with tired eyes who skipped
lunch despite empty stomachs
feeling heavier, the freshman
with open wounds grazing
the veins in her arms who
sprinted out of classrooms
due to the sporadic nature
of panic attacks.
i'd like to say that i've
transitioned out of the cocoon
of panic disorders and ptsd and
depression, but somehow,
the butterfly wings haven't grown in yet.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 7:04 PM UTC
I, ConnectHook
DEMAND recognition as The Most Boring Poet of all.
You’ll never touch me so don’t even TRY.
Don’t even bother dipping your quill again,
you mere drip on the mildewed scroll of antediluvian parchment,
you cuneiform Cunégonde, you proto-Canaanite pottery fragment,
you keyboarding failed clown
and archeological relic unworthy of preservation
in a third-rate underfunded Albanian museum…
I, and I alone, dragged myself up from the protoplasmic slime
to BORE you.
I transitioned from amphibian to anthropoid
before your mama even MET the postman.
I stood upright upon the ****** battleground of evolutionary struggle
and SELECTED MYSELF (naturally).
Now pass that banana right over here.
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
Despite the number of YouTube videos in the world,
there are none titled, "If I had been a boy we would have dated,
but now I've transitioned sooooo???"
and it gives me anxiety.
Apr 24, 2021
Apr 24, 2021 at 10:44 AM UTC
My second year in college
I was enrolled in LGBT psychology
I had just contacted my insurance
Regarding the possibility of top surgery
Although the website included it
They told me they wouldn't cover it
My heart caved in on itself
And I knew it wasn't going to happen
Then one day during class
We had guest speakers there
One of them was a trans woman
Who had transitioned successfully
I was wholly inspired again and
When I asked her some questions
I began crying uncontrollably
I was surprised and embarrassed
In a way I knew she understood
And then I repressed that pain
I knew I'd have to wait for it and
I didn't want to hurt that much along the way
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC
he told me, he likes 'alternative' girls
i'm pretty sure he meant it as a compliment,
but it was not received that way.
don't get me wrong
there's nothing wrong with pursuing an 'alternative' lifestyle
or an 'alternative' style
or an 'alternative' taste in ******* men
but there's something wrong with being called an 'alternative' girl
i'm not sure when i transitioned from a person to a preference
or when my body became a fetish rather than a human form
like there is some stigma attached to the piercings in my ears
or the tattoos on my body
that means i must be a freak in bed
or that i must be totally down with casual ***
and not being called the next day
as if i didn't show you secret parts of me, and i don't mean my body
and being ignored when you see me in public
as if you never called me beautiful, and i almost believed it
and now you're sitting with your 'mainstream' girl
who is more approved by the onlookers to your average life.
despite how you may perceive who i am,
i will never be your alternative girl.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 1:14 AM UTC
There is a sound in a house when it’s occupants have left for the day and it isn’t silence.
It’s more of a dull collective hum of electrical appliances enjoying the chance to indulge their expression without the need to shout over humans.
There is the echo of words whispered in soft tones and the violent ones exchanged in heated debate, also the screams and laughter and the bark of dogs.
There is the sound of unfolded washing, waiting patiently to be transitioned from unkempt mess to organised functionality in a drawer or cupboard.
Their sound before such a transformation is heavy and unlovable, but once the task of folding is completed, they fall silent, thankful to have reached their destiny this week before their new cycle of destruction of order begins.
Toys, where does one start with the sound of toys in the absence of playmates. Their sound is dependent on how loved they are and how much time they have left before they, like a wife after 20 years of marriage, are replaced by the upgraded model, the new and better version.
But it’s the breakfast things, the things left on the table, half eaten toast and a mauled boiled egg that have the most sound.
It’s the sound of a dwindling life force struggling against its fate to be recycled in the compost, like us.
That sound is a deafening silent scream of a resistance to endings, an inevitable journey back into nothing.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 7:56 AM UTC
Fibromyalgia is a chronic muscle disorder characterized by widespread pain.
My mother's caramel hued skin has transitioned
to a much darker shade. Strands of hair gracefully
fall from her scalp as feelings of
agony and helplessness replace her
jocund spirit, destroying the essence
of who she once was. Her embodiment
deteriorates alongside her crumbling flesh.
Veins bulge underneath her skin; knots form
below her kneecaps; misery creeps up her spine.
As stridulous moans escape my mother's lips,
I can only offer sympathy. This disease latches on to
anyone within it's reach -- not only targeting
victims but their families as well. Like a predator,
fibromyalgia seeks to control every aspect of her
being – passionately tugging the affected between
the struggle to persevere or succumb to its' insanity.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 1:38 PM UTC
Will words ever explain this perpetual breakdown
A cyclic pattern of relentless wondering
How is it once an earlier bird
Suddenly a night owl
Pessimism tangentially transitioned
To something a little less like rhetoric
This spiraling lifestyle suddenly a little less sickening
Does this seem acceptable
To be and not to be
And it seems this mind lately
Is gathering its ideals from some new unfathomable philosophy
Still no excuse for such obscurity in ones life
Surely
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 10:15 AM UTC
My thirst for conversation has continued to impress me
Fills me with stories helping to shape another in my eyes
Met with friend for a mutual exchange of identity
An interview with questions directed; I asked first
Starting with the earliest formulation of conscious thought
Hers was the return of a sick father
She eagerly embraced him when he arrived home safely
Vividly describes the large red chair present
I transitioned to exchange of reflection most powerful
Searching for a single memory of hers that stood alone
Her face brightened, her eyes shining with nostalgia
Her dog’s name was Max
Max entered her life when she was one year old
On the celebration of her birth in fact
He was the runt of the pack, a ruby retriever
Grew to maturity and average size, with love
Max made his way into her writing in the classroom
His possible harm one of her first worries
He was a cherished family pet, she loved him with all her heart
Being a young child, sometimes she was too rough
Cancer took Max from this world at nine years of age
He was buried under a peach tree in the back yard
The peaches swollen and ripe make death turn to life
To this day they represent the sweetness of his soul
Her early years were full of stress at thought of parental separation
Subject to fickle fears and frozen emotions
Her true panic began in high school days
Developed into distinguishable attacks and episodes
There were never tangible reasons or focus points for fear
Racing thoughts, vertigo chills, imminent death
Creeping insanity and the dry, frustrating inability to swallow
Worsened as college approached and the familiar faded fast
Week one was worse than any panic period yet
Heart flutters, helplessness and disorienting dizzy spells
Friends were far away or had yet to be encountered
Sympathy for perceived insanity ran thin
These experiences require constant care and medication
Hospital visits and appointments with understanding ear
She shared her life with me through effect of anxiety
I shared in turn, but couldn’t help distraction
We did not record the interview so I took it upon myself
Documenting with equal force her story and my amazement
Dec 2, 2010
Dec 2, 2010 at 4:01 PM UTC
we are children treated as adults
(or it could be vice versa)
with no direction,
no hopscotch grid leading to the next stage,
shaking hands in place of patty-cake,
our no longer sticky fingers
cling to paper bills and grasp at plastic and cloth and metal and stones,
almost believing they are what identifies us.
like new toys, we indulge
in touch and feel and romance,
and other drugs too,
to numb our collective fear of the future.
our first day jitters have transitioned to a paralyzing fear of our last days,
and our tricycles have lost their training wheels,
and we take responsibility,
we learn to care more,
to care less,
we find jobs and alcohol and credit cards but never ourselves,
and we grow up.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 3:45 AM UTC
everything hurts
but not in the sad way you think
everything hurts because nothing wonderful is curated without a little bit of pain
the pain is the fuel which leads you to light
or maybe that’s all my life has ever been
a journey back to heaven
i always mix up anxiety and adrenaline
everyday is another day i can’t believe i made
i was born a melody but life transitioned me into a serenade
love is the only thing that overcomes the pain
i live for glimpses of it
it passes through fast like the sparkles when the sun hits the sea
and in those moments i feel free
the warmth i felt for all the times my heart sang
it hurts to use my senses at times
i ache and i cry
but i know bliss will soon tell me why
a kiss for today, and a kiss for forever
for now i love the universe until he tells me it’s time
Jun 29, 2022
Jun 29, 2022 at 8:02 AM UTC
Little blue-eyed girl spent every day loving.
You could almost see the love oozing out of her eyes when she stared into your soul.
Or the happiness radiating through her fingertips when she held your hand.
She was the color yellow.
She was the sunshine and the dandelions, the lemon lollipops and countless smiles.
Little blue-eyed girl loved with all she had in her.
She touched every human soul she knew
Except her own.
Sometimes, little blue-eyed girl forgot about herself.
But she never forgot to call the girl across the street or help the boy with the beautiful hair find a date.
But sometimes she forgot herself.
She wrote less,
Smiled less,
Thought about herself less,
Talked less.
But she cried more.
Suddenly, little blue-eyed girl realized she had forgot how to love herself.
She distantly remembered the days when she looked at herself in the mirror and smiled.
The girl who loved her small hands and her warm smile were like ghosts dancing in her brain.
She remembered the pigtails and the overalls that she had burned when he told her to.
She couldn’t remember when doodling on her arm in class had transitioned into counting down the ticking minutes in anxiety.
Her countless days of self love weren’t countless anymore.
She didn’t even know how to count anymore.
Where did all the love go?
And then she remembered the boy with the floppy hair that she poured her soul into and he batted her away.
Or the girl with thick, raven curls that told her she was too much to handle, too strange to talk to.
Or the boy with the freckles that drained her of love.
The one who made her keep on giving when she had nothing left to give.
He drained her like a strawberry milkshake and he made sure to slurp up the remains at the bottom so there would be nothing left.
No, little blue-eyed girl didn’t have anxiety or depression.
She didn’t know someone who had committed suicide or had died.
She didn’t have a drinking problem, a drug problem.
Little blue-eyed girl didn’t have an illness that you can put a label on and prescribe medication for.
There was nothing wrong with little blue-eyed girl then.
Was there?
Diagnosis: “she gave more love than she could ever receive”
-Olivia Wirth
8 / 9 / 16
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
You said to trust in you.
As the walls shifted and doors cracked,
as the gasoline dripped and you attacked,
as the ashes piled behind our backs,
you said to trust in you.
You said we'll be okay.
Days, months, years passed by,
my worries transitioned into war cries,
your stern actions became civil in my eyes,
you said we'll be okay.
You said please don't go.
My feeble body couldn't withstand your hold,
your reoccurring apologies soon became foretold,
as the beast inside of you came out and controlled,
you said please don't go.
You said I love you.
Those powerful words meticulously said,
pierced me - all at once there was red,
your pastel lips gently glided onto my forehead,
You said I loved you.
|s.s|
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 7:50 PM UTC
It boiled out of me
like a sharp harpoon,
pinning me to a wall
of certain destiny.
Swimming in the fate
I thought I had
tipping into a jar of vanity.
The transitioned lenses
seeing past and future
concurrently,
Shake their heads in protest
with confidence to be feared.
What makes one doubt,
to question the path of inconsequential,
Who gathers the berries
and decides which are sweet
and which are bitter?
Only to taste is to know,
to experience and to feel,
to revel and relate,
to touch and know.
Jun 15, 2011
Jun 15, 2011 at 11:37 PM UTC
Just a moment
Held me close
I won't tell
If no one knows
Clear as day
Cold as night
Owls turn heads
To catch sight
Vultures pick at prey
Calm down
Be happy
Gay
I won't tell
If they don't see
How your dress hides
Them from me
Femininity warped
Chiseled down
While a breast
Warm in touch
Cant be found
I won't tell
If they dont ask
You've transitioned
A thing in the past
Left behind lips
Gaining beard
Judgement
Disapproval
You feared
Ohh but I accept you
Connected as one
Though I'm a single
With two
Curved and abstract
Satisfied by the things I do
Tell me something...
Can I tell her
If she loves you
As I do
Hidden View
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 2:11 AM UTC
She watched the rain hit the window and collect in droplets
that slowly made their way down the fogged glass.
Her forehead rested against the car door,
she breathed slowly and deeply,
lulled from the hum of the engine.
Bits of an old rock song drifted softly
from the radio.
A man sat behind the wheel,
her current beau.
He was potbellied and smelt of
cigarettes and stale cheap beer.
He hummed, out of tune to the song.
His hand rested on her thigh,
she sighed and peered past the raindrops
to the brilliant red and white lights flashing by.
Closing her eyes, she imagine herself in the
midst of the whirling colors.
Overwhelmed, drunk, and happy.
She opened her eyes,
looked at the fat driver,
who gave her an ugly grin
and kissed her roughly on the mouth
and patted her cheek.
She stared at the accumulated raindrops,
He rolled down the window and spat,
she stared at the dark sky,
the rock song transitioned into a blues melody.
Her forehead rested once more against the car window,
her eyes unfocused.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 11:49 PM UTC
My thoughts have transitioned
from short term to long term
less of sunday afternoon
and more or future apartments
but let it not divert you
from the fact
that I miss you daily
your laundry soap smell;
you taste like nothing
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
Us and our faux friends
And our pantomime ways,
We led the lives that we believes
Would make everything okay.
We were both cautious
And withdrawn,
You were the queen and I your pawn,
And while you travel where you please
I'm tied to where I was born.
My steps are small, my feet are fragile,
But my blood is liquid gold.
There's only so many times as man
Does what he's told.
It began with love letters,
And lyrics that had meaning.
But transitioned into chaos,
All the whispers turned to screaming.
It took us both to realise,
This is never what we wanted.
And so you left me here in purgatory,
When I am always haunted.
The lights are out, the doors are locked,
And I feel so alone.
I wander through this place with spirits,
With all my chances blown.
So while you start to fix your life
And trim all the edges,
Know I tried, I really did,
And this is what I dreaded.
I'm already transforming,
My body's starting to cope.
I'm learning not to put faith in things,
Because it's just false hope.
And if we never come back from this,
And this is really the end,
Know this golden heart has turned to lead,
And the holes will never mend.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 8:33 AM UTC
I have the special ability to spit spliced railroad tracks into all the right places. I Filled my ears with drainage tubes down complicated compliments through subway grates to visit the homeless man that believes in a better tomorrow. Because someone has to. Now I have never been on a subway, but the way your presence flows through my veins like a bullet in a barrel makes me feel that maybe i can be the one to deliver this moment. The moment that I was late for. Two years late. It took me a while to understand that the platform we have eloquently been slapping graffiti across will one day be our home. A home of every moment we have shared. Home has always been a place of here and there. I have never been able to stay in a specific longitude for more than a lifetime of awkward moments shared between a ********** and a clergy man. I choose to live in a mobile home. With wheels built off rotating personality disorders that refuse to believe in teamwork. We traveled through state borders leaving the past inside us for all to confide in. In my home, I have a room. I keep in there everything you don't know about. It builds comfort through my sternum. Exploding into my ribs that hug my organs with safety. Home is the place I want to be. My veins are electrical cords spitting energy though plywood walls charged with dreams about a remodel. A 4x2 for a spine stiff enough to support this bobble head of mine. My knee caps still need to be replaced at some point. They don't know how to walk in a straight line yet. Finding curves in my consciousness. Although Constructing this safe haven has been a Wreckless abandonment of everything I have learned from informercials at 4am. It started with a foundation of this will never go anywhere, transitioned into a tumbling saw blade crashing through dandelions for being so **** confusing. I still can't tell the difference between those and flowers. We ended here. In the dumpsters Bags I hide under my eyes. Full of memories from every time I said "I can sleep when I'm dead". Its all stuck in my head like a diamond plated dorito that was prized in a box for those who want more than good enough. So as I cough up my confidence I will sit next to you, on this subway, the one I have never been on. I will muster up some courage to honor all the good in you, and ask you simple questions like how was your day? What's your middle name? And where do you paint your home? Spray me across the definite realization that home is where you are.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
when I first saw you, the wind howled your name like a chilling whisper that sent shivers and galaxies of goosebumps up my spine and down my back
the waves transitioned their melody and began to play a calmer tune, harmonizing with the gentle easy inhales and exhales your lungs produced
my heart whispered you were the one, while a rush of nerves flowed through my blood; a swarm of butterflies took flight in my belly as our eyes met and we became locked in a state that couldn't be undone
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 12:15 AM UTC
there's four kinds of love poems.
1. the one about the guy who you wish to experience. the guy who makes you wonder. the guy you're curious about. the man who has dreams not yet revealed. the guy you have made a picture of in your head. the one you want to know.
2. the guy who broke your heart. the boy you love. love him more than anything, but maybe youre just not in love anymore. the boy who never quite transitioned to a man. the 'wrong time.' the one you thought you would live your life with. the one who wasnt perfect, or even great, but you thought of him the world.
3. the comparison. who you thought you loved, but realized later on there is a love much stronger. the people who fall into this category grows bigger with experience and time.
4. the love of your life and if you're lucky, hopefully he's the same person as number one.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
The carpet is thick here.
Fuggy and like pastelled peaches.
In the fibres is us; flesh flakes dead and brittle,
Our nail, hair and bone,
Liquor in hand to toast our time’s acquittal.
It is a night in the present, our past’s indulgence
Upon all that we held too dear.
The chime of bottled beer.
I surrender to your faces.
A sea of young fortune; it favours acute flesh,
Our *** bare and tone,
Her nails painted black, bruised legs folded in mesh.
For once, I cling not to my ungodly obsession
And think not of time’s grisly sneer.
You live within my tears.
Each moment aside from this room.
In grey matter is us; memories flayed and malformed,
Our kiss, touch and moan
Bought several times since, efficiently performed.
Don’t lie to me, the meaning of your transitioned lives,
Nor that my face does not still endear.
The air is too thick here,
Now that I have left this shelter.
I shall meet you in waves; upon battered beaches,
Our age, wage and loan
To lace our tongues in most defeated speeches.
In this life it is us; now so rehearsed in our kindness,
But still shrapnel and fallout
In all that we fear.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
I miss it
All of it
The warmth, the touches, and the softening of myself
I melt my energy and inner ego
Letting myself be transparent in the moment
She transitioned me from the sun to the moon
But I could not give her the light she needed
She needed to find her own illumination
But I'll still never forget
What is
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 9:58 PM UTC