I Am A TransmanI Am A Transman3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
I tuck and I bind,
I pack and I grind,
But still somehow
I cannot find
The man inside
He wants out,
Let him free!
But he knows what you
Expect him to be
So I try to exceed
What you think of me
And make you change
How your thinking sees
Just a girl with small boobs
and a sock in her pants
But that's not me
You're just in a trance
Society's made you
Feel what they feel
And think what they think
Until it's not real
To hope that someday
You'll be who you need
Who you want
Who you feel
You really should be.
So I write this story
In hopes you'll find
That I'm still me
Whether I bind
Or hold my head high
Or look like a man
Because I look past it;
I know that I can.
Socially awkwardDo you know what it feels like?Socially awkward2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
To feel so socially awkward
around people that you feel
uncomfortable in your own skin,
knowing that you don't fit in.
And, you walk away...
thinking that being alone
will be better for you -
but you're wrong.
You just feel even more alone;
even more rejected from society;
perhaps even sad, in some way.
What do you do while waiting for someone?
As you wait, and wait, and wait for them -
hoping they'll come soon
lest you seem like a loner
walking aimlessly around,
causing people to pity you.
And your face gets hot,
you start to sweat because
they know -
they know of how alone you are
and they feel sorry for you.
Underneath the Weeping WillowI want to sleep.Underneath the Weeping Willow5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when I am old and bruised and tired
and dead to the world around me
I will fly to Greece.
And when I am there
I'll start walking
I'll walk through cities and drag myself
until eventually I reach
somewhere for me
and nowhere for everybody else.
I'll sleep there so soundly,
day after day,
until the ground rots
and the mountains die.
I'll live in my own moment
and leave 'yesterday' behind me.
I wake and I'm happy again.
They Told UsThey Told Us:They Told Us4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
They told us we weren't artists,
They said that we're just puttin' words on paper...
They told us we wouldn't make it,
Because language isn't unique...
Ta hell with them all I say,
Because I know tha truth they seek ta hide.
We're treated like third-rate artists.
Our hands can't create magical pictures,
We can't create comics ta make people laugh,
Or emotive portraits ta make em cry...
But what they don't see is tha title,
What they don't see is tha description,
They don't even see tha comments or replies!
They look only at themselves,
And at tha talent they seem ta proclaim.
It's like starin' at an old english aristocrat,
Ignorin' us simply because we're farmers.
But what they don't see are the words.
Words used ta give a picture context.
Withou' a title, a picture is just a mix of colours and lines.
Who could understand an image, withou' a title?
If art alone suffices, why not let every piece be nameless?
I'll tell ya the truth, separated from the
DementiaDementiaDementia3 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
You there, in the corner
Dark eyed phantom, maniacal sweetheart,
Trumping in my head like a frantic hammer.
The squall, echoing in my ripping soul,
Vibrating in my lungs in a whole new laughter.
I see you as you are,
But you've been told otherwise,
Yet my eyes can see the shadows in yours,
the child that once was, lost in the agony,
of a tomorrow you think would never be.
You're still smiling at me,
exhuming the warmth of a blissful memory,
I want you to be free again, blessed again
And enjoy the bright path leading you,
To the moment your existence brightens this rotting world.
Despite the heaviness of your past, you still walk tall and brave,
Admiration from my heart to yours,
Forever will remain,
Because real giants are those whose who will always grin,
And you are one of them, my friend.
That madness in you mind is strength,
That softness in your pupils is life,
You there, in the corner,
With your disturbed, prodigious smile
And intriguing, perfect dementia.