Writing is what the mouth can’t speak But what the mind wants to scream. Each little word a note of my existence. I want these words to rip skin and bone While still maintaining the soul. I want these words to be a portal beyond our limits. Once my words becomes a song and lifts the reader up and guide them away across the sky. In order to calm my soul… I write it down on paper. A pencil, pen, or keyboard, One letter coming after another They are all artifacts of my mind. Yet sometimes I write about another’s. I want these words to scream off the paper. Almost as if words were something you could see, Not just something you could hear. ‘Stories’. What took 2 minutes for you to read took 2 hours to birth from my imagination.
A poem about gender dysphoria
“Trapped in the wrong body” That’s what they say how it feels. No, Not for me. I know this is my body. Because it is my body. I lift my hand up in the air And let the wind curl around my fingers And twigs prick at my skin. I let the rain form droplets and beads of water inherit my hair. And flutteringly open my eyes. This is my body.
However. My soul have not processed that is true.
I am not trapped. I am forced. Into a box. A circular box.
Perfect for wrapping gifts for the holidays Wrapped in pretty linen and a shiny red bow on top. A lot of people have been trying to force me into that box for a very long time.
It’s hard to force someone to be someone they are not unless they are happy to lie.
When I look at myself I do not feel ashamed. I feel untrue.
That, that person on the other side is simply a reflection of an alternative version of myself that my consciousness takes hold of.
Like I could press my hand against the glass, my palm notices familiar feel of cold hardened sand appear as my fingertips create fingerprints as I hear a shower in the background and the mist covers the room.
And for just once
That reflection at the end of what seems like the universe, is not who what others see me as, but who I am.
As I slowly come out from behind the mirror as the glass becomes liquid sand as I grab my hand in a tight grip and yank me to the other side. However. My soul is not my body.
It’s simply energy that I cannot turn on or off and is dominant compared to my bones.
Oh, how I wish I could tell my younger self that people made up those two boxes.
That strangely enough have so much in common.
That is because the reality is not just boxes but an open void filled with love,beauty,pain and stars.
Which is why society creates their own ‘reality’.
Which have caused a lot of problems for people by telling them that they are the problem because they exist.
That “we chose our soul”
That we chose to Know the world isn’t just in black and white.
That we chose for our earth to stay silent as we watch it burn.
They say the land of the free, Well, I guess no land is truly free after all.
Life is not a masquerade.
No one can put on a fancy mask And pretend to be a stranger and never showing their true face.
Life is the clouds.
Slowly drifting in the sky.
Something that you cannot touch.
Your fingers seep through it.
Pressure building up against the composition before letting all that pressure out And let rain and thunder rage and sulk amongst the earth once they had enough.
To leave room for a ray of light to beam into someone’s bedroom for a perfect sunny day.
I shouldn’t have to scream to be heard in a quiet room.
I shouldn’t worry if me is too much to ask for. I didn’t ask for anything.
I was born something And told I was born another.
I can’t control If when someone says my birth name,
And those syllables roll off their tongue Like feathers that fall and shatter on the floor left over from a dying bird,
That I can’t help but feel invisible.
Like I slowly and slowly turn transparent.
That I am no longer there and they are talking about their idea of who they think I am.
Like those syllables don’t belong to me.
Like people are just seeing my skin and bones But not
Me.
Or when I see myself as a child being stuffed inside that box again,
That I want to help them break free out of those handcrafted chains that others made,
And to get out of that small box to explore high snowy mountain tops and icy cold rivers and forests that smell of pine and plumed berries
Instead of dark misted cardboard
But just Me.
A poem addressing homophobia.
From the day a human is born, We are all born with an invisible string. Wrapped around our infant fingers. And as we grow up That string becomes less and less invisible, Some people find their string to be connected to nothing While for most, Your string is connected to another person’s finger. Love is one of the most human things That we can behold. And so is hate. One cannot cut that string or another person’s string. One cannot yank that string And that be the reason why some people mistake every string to be invisible. Carrying around scissors wherever they go Only to not get any benefit As life progresses you find yourself To come closer and closer to the end of that string Only to find another human being in front of you. One day Everyone will realize That they can drop their scissors Because they are not cutting anything They cannot change anything Because at the end of the day, Even when the sun sets and stars appear, The moonlight still shines over everybody
To address poverty.
The eagle stands tall The parrrot dances They all have one thing in common They all have wings. To lift them up and carry them away swiftly across the wind Each year migrating to new land To new hopes of surviving the snowstorm Called life. But have you ever heard of the lost tale Of the bird with no wings? Nothing to carry them up Yet nothing to hold them down The fish may not be a bird The fish may not be able to fly There fins pushing them as fast as they can across the dark salty ocean depths The fish wants to be a bird. As the birds fly across the clouds The fish swims as fast as it can To catch up Jumping out of the water into air before coming back down into the sea And stopping when it sees land They will not migrate They will swim in the same circle For years to come Avoiding the coral and plastic in the water. However, you don’t need to be born with wings To fly. The fish can swim upwards And jump into the surface.
A poem about mental health and depression
Each day under the pouring rain Same and old, feet pressing against the wet concrete Boots filled with liquid and tilting your head down And yet here you are, An imposter to the people around you In the fiery streets, The rain might as well be burning concrete, Piercing your toes and your raging heart That is awaiting autumn to come. Only then, wind will carry away your troubles Like ash and dust of a lost soul in the wind That we breathe in everyday Unaware that the precious air we breathe Is made of lost souls and lost lives Awaiting your presence too Each birthday comes faster as you go through more birthdays And suddenly the song goes dim. The world goes quiet. The vision of the rim of your eyes goes numb. Because you know. Any birthday could be your last. birthday cakes have candles, And so do funerals. But why does that bother you, Why does each step have its own aching scream and under the harsh cold wind your feet stay as warm as ever. Just enough to continue walking. And make your way home?
A poem addressing all unaccepting parents of transgender children
The moment you hold your newborn child in your hands And them then something that means your whole life— So one day You can look down at the plant you grew and say “I made this”… But have you ever realized Your child isn’t a plant They are a tree Their colorful blossoms and leaves shine gold Under the broad daylight In a flock of birds, They attack the most colorful one out of all of them because being different is seen as a threat. You cut cut off your child’s branches Snipping away at the leaves, Try to cut it down But their roots stay strong You will lie to your child, And call the them a simple little plant And they will put on a mask By looking at other plants Instead of their forest Which you are always trying to burn See the soul, Not what carries the soul The flesh upon your child’s subtle bones Do not determine who they are So in the garden, Let your child be a forest Not a damaged seed
