Poetry

last year,

I did a school debate 

of why 

trans athletes should be able to play in sports

I lost

and I cried

because my teacher

let us pick topics

YWP is the springtime crocuses you have been waiting for,

the flower in the snow

YWP is the golden hour

poetry flows 

Walking home alone.

She spots a man nearby.

He whistles, shouts a lewd comment.

She tries to ignore him at first.

He yells again.

She calls back, laughing nervously, "Maybe another time!"

He doesn't listen.

I write longhand.

Journal, pencil, print.

Letters melding together in a harmony on the page.

Graphite scratching the paper, pencil sharpening every 5 minutes.

Lined paper, perfect for doodles and random thoughts.

I wake up under covers or chains,

Alone in a bed I didn't sleep in,

Clothes like a straight-jacket around my limbs,

My thoughts locked in the prison of my brain.

Outside it is snowing—a cotton cover,

This is not a political poem

It can’t be

Because I need hope

And I cannot find hope in such a divided world

I mean, look at us

Left versus right

There’s war in Europe, 

but this time the US has stopped selling guns,

Not to join in or contain the spread,

But to talk with the invaders,

Happy Birthday!

You know who you are, 

But thanks for another year of support,

Friendship,

And no trust issues (*cough* the other one *cough*),

Anyway,

You've been the best!

The red bike,

It just sits,

No one ever touches it,

No one ever claimed the bike,

After years in the park,

It lost some of its shine after tons of storms,

The rust comes and covers the beautiful paint,

Like atoms, humans attract when far, and repel when close; distance is the beauty of this prose. 

stupid little trees 

speak to me 

through their whispering leaves 

they seem to grieve. 

stupid little clouds 

cry so damn loud 

through snow and rain 

I am just too much, 

too loud,

too weird,

too open and honest,

too kind, 

just too everything. 

Talk about my emotions, 

so smart about who I am,