Jan 10

Beaming writer

In sixth grade, our class had a show-and-tell every week,
and every week, a small handful of students were selected to participate in the next one.
As I was selected, anxiety kicked in.
I wasn't really proud of anything.
I didn't have anything extraordinary,
like an heirloom from my ancestors that was passed down to me
or an art piece that I made out of clay and acrylic paint.
Maybe they'd make an exception to the "no pets" rule for my cat,
but then I saw my name in the paper.
It was a poem I had submitted to Young Writers Project
and I didn't expect anything to come of it,
but something did. I was out there in dark ink, my thoughts immortalized.
I was eleven years old then, fragile, and I held up the flimsy paper proudly
for the whole class to see what I had created. My teacher beamed.
She had read my writing before, stories that faded with time, but this was stained.
Apr 07

Love And Embalming

They carried you away in a black hearse.
Our black eyes,
beaten and bruised by love,
caressed your black coffin.
They opened your casket and there you were,
your eyes closed,
relaxed and so cold,
and yet you seemed so alive.
They painted your beautifully round face
with the illusion
of life, but alas,
you were unbearably still.
They cried for you in weeping waves.
Their hands shook
as they held each other
over their decaying son.
Mar 07
rant challenge: CJP-Bully

Grow Up and Listen

You don't wanna talk to me or listen to me or hear what it is I want to tell you so badly and that's fine.
You never want to listen to anyone anyway.
You'll never understand what it's like for everyone else because you never listen.
You don't care and you don't want to.
You're stubborn and greedy and everything I dislike in a person.
You picked and poked at the people I love for being different.
You nag and nudge because you can never be like them.
You can never be original or funny or free.
You'll always be trapped by your own hate, unable to be happy, unable to let go.
You'll never understand what it's like to be born in a body that you don't feel is yours.
You'll never know what it's like to be scoffed at and ridiculed for being yourself.
You'll never know love or friendship or family and for that, I feel sorry for you.
You're just too busy being torn by hate and chewed up by its disgusting mouths.
Feb 15

The Throbbing Fires of Longing

Nov 30

Charlie Said To Me

Blending together, swirling in confusion,
I can hear them bicker.
As though it were a classroom, I take attendance.
Mom?
Oui? C'est quoi?
Izzie?
Uhhh, my name is actually Death, but here! (Haha)
Mrs. Brune?
Look at that color scheme. Wow!
Mrs. Rooney?
1,2,3,1,2,3,1,2,3
Charlie?
Just skip the work today. You can't focus anyway.

Everyone is present and accounted for,
but I know there are some nameless ones
whose voices are familiar, but unfamiliar too.

We're out of nowhere.
Nonsense. She's heard us somewhere, she just doesn't know where.

I'm not a she, I'm a he. 

But unless you've got something between your legs,
you'll always be seen as a confused girl.


That's not true. I can change my body, but for no one but myself.

I kissed a girl and I liked it!
Jun 30

Deliver Her Unto Me

Fields of stone angels,
depictions of divine sorrow,
stained with wetness,
cracked and crumbling,
aged terribly and unkept,
shake beneath my hand
and weep into grave soil.
She went too soon.
She was just a child.
She peers into the broken glass
and her reflection is empty.
Deliver her unto me.
She was just a child.
Stripped of her rosy complexion,
she swallows decay,
catches it on her tongue
the way she caught winter flakes.
Her once curiously large eyes
now sink deep into her skull.
Flowers wilt and are replaced
as the years pass her by.
She was just a child.
Her flowers are wilted
and as the grey skies
of an oncoming winter
dust her with the first snow,
no one will replace them.
Deliver her unto me.
She was just a child.
May 11

Who The Hell Told You That?

People can change.
People can initiate change.
Who says they can't?
The world can change.
The world must change.
Who says it can't?
We're not incapable.
We are more than capable.
Who says we're hopeless?
I'm not a tragedy.
I'm not an experiment.
Who says that I am?
You're not dreaming.
You're just not here.
Who says that you are?
They don't know.
They don't have to.
Who says they do?

Now, who the hell told you that?
Apr 30

Infernal Dame

Love is a flame carried inside,
a flame that I cannot hide,
a spark that could start an infernal war,
and with you, Angel, I carry this flame.

I do not wish to burn alone
for I am but flesh and bone,
but together, we are so much more.
To be apart would be a shame.

We entangle together but are never confused.
My veins fill with passion and I am unbruised,
but desire is destruction, so tear my core.
Engulf me, my eternal, infernal dame.

The angels of Heaven cannot compare
to my love with a heart and tongue so fair.
It treads my wastelands, rewrites my lore,
and the fires of Hell were ever so tame
until you, mon autre moitié, came.
Mar 04

What Are You Thinking About?

Feb 13

Spirit Mother

If you dig your fingers into the soil,
feel the cold and damp Earth,
you can grasp onto Her hand.
If you bend with the great oaks,
hearken ye their wind song,
you can paint Her vast sky.
If you crumble with the harvest leaves,
carry the weight of your sisters,
She will carry you as you fall.
If you soak in the hot summer sun,
let it comfort your spirit,
Her love will shine through.
If you dig, bend, crumble, and soak,
then She will mother you.

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