An Orgasm

On being hollow..

I’ll never have kids,

But I’m pregnant with words,

Made fertile by my experiences with you.

My fruits,

Would reshape the world if it let them,

If only they could exist.

There’s this burden we carry,

This burden we are.

It defines and confines us

Entwines us in our own yarns.

My burden is distinct,

It’s hard to tell you what it’s like,

To not make babies but only make rhymes,

To deal with it all knowing

the time,

the time,

the time,

How can I explain it?

What it’s like to exist..?

To be stitched together,

And filled with shit,

But none of it life,

None of it real,

A fabricated mess of pain

And doubt congealing on a spinning wheel.

But I guess you get it anyway,

C’est la vie, that’s what it’s like to exist.

Everything’s so goddamn important,

And meaninglessness subsists.

The only thing I have that’s real,

Is the sadness I share,

This pill you swallow

Of the burden I bare.

So take it for what it is,

Hope it’s to your liking,

It is what it is.

A part of me needs you to have it,

A part of me hates you for taking it,

A part of me fears what it will mean to you,

A part of me would love to just forget.

But does it matter anyway?

Is it even real?

This burden that you’re grasping to feel,

Is as real as the babies who’ll never be

Born of my non-existent womb.

But I hope what I carry

Can still carry meaning

That keeps you coming

For me baby;

Again, and again, and again.

Miss Tree

3 stamps, a tree branch, and a person you’re not

When you get down to the bottom,

To the root of it all

You’ll find:

3 stamps, a tree branch, and a person you’re not

I hear you all singing

Telling me to join in

You tell me, “It all means something.”

You tell me to commit

But I know the true face of mystery

I’ve seen what’s behind the mask:

I know I’m really no one

And I’m okay with it

It doesn’t have to matter

To have meaning

It’s about common sense

But sometimes sense is senseless

And I just go along with it

With my 3 stamps, my tree branch, and the person I’m not

The trick is to be no one

To commit against sense

But commit to “commitment”

Or be committed for “making sense”

When you tell them about:

the “3 stamps,” the “tree branch,” and the “person you’re not”

You are who you are as you are who you’re not

And which one is real is a mystery

The Forest

The World is on Fire

The forest is on fire,

But I’m standing my ground.

My roots are planted firmly in it,

Never letting me down.

Oh, it’s coming for me now I know,

And yes, it should be time to go,

but I’m not moving. No, I’m not moving

This ground is mine, there will be time

For more falls with fruit that fell

To spread and share the wealth around.

More winters to sleep and dream of spring,

When they’ll grow and bloom for the summer,

And stand their ground when the time comes

For them too, to stand against fire.

Your Problem

Gnōthi seauton.

Your problem

Has always been

A problem of freedom

Of too much space

And too much mind

Of too much time

And too much too much too much

No clarity

Without reason

And no focus

Always saying NO because there is no..

Focus!

Give it clarity

Make the reason, to

Read between the stars

To see constellations as concepts

And ask

Who you are?

A star, who crashed here

Centuries ago, before time

With too many options

And too many reasons;

Constants and variables;

Time and time and time.

Without understanding, without

Focus, without concepts; With

Concepts like focus,

It’s difficult to grasp

Too much freedom

Too much time

And too much too much too much

Makes things slippery.

What is your problem? Everything

And nothing at all

Your problem is you

Like the universe you are,

Don’t know

Yourself.

The Woman in the Mirror

Mirrors are just glass. We are more than that, but just as fragile.

There’s a woman in my mirror.

She’s been there all my life.

Staring back at me, in spite

Of what others may have seen.

She has suffered, like me. She is

Me after all, never have we

Not shared circumstances.

 

She is a “TERF”, a woman scorned

Who lacks empathy for the man

She sees in her space, whose

Presence threatens her life, preventing her

From safety

freedom of mobility,

and opportunity

To live and seek happiness. To feel

Safe.

 

He is a threat to everything she

Longs to be. His presence

Dominates her. Screaming at

Him in rage, she takes the wooden brush

From the counter-top below.

Pulling back her arm, she weaponizes

It, hurling it at his grotesque

Face. The mirror shatters, leaving

Behind nothing but dysphoria.

Beauty in the Blank Space

An experimental poetic conceptualization of the creative process to poetry.

In honor of National Poetry Day, here is the most bizarre poem I’ve ever written. It’s too experimental for WordPress. I couldn’t work out how to copy over the formatting, so you’re just going to have to enjoy it as an image.

Beauty in the Blank Space

[Originally written: 2011]

All of a Heap

Here, I lie,
In this pit I call
My self, surrounded
By the heap of the Others,
With nothing I call my own.
Feeling no right to claim;
Knowing no claim to feel.
This pit is filled to the rim of the brim,
For here is where the Others heap
And heap all of a heap of a world.
Words and wisdoms like weighted water
Drown the light I know is there,
Waiting at the top.
I lie at the bottom
Beneath the heap, suffocated,
Stifled, and lying still.
The Others wait, knowing
The Truth I know, waiting
For me to stop lying, knowing
All I have known is lying.
Truth is, I am the heap
Personified; this pit I call my self is filled;
Words and wisdoms waiting,
Knowing I will come.
I will lift from this pit, leaving
Behind the lie, knowing
I carry Truth to share,
All of a heap to bare.
Rising, all I see is pits,
And pits, and pits, and pits..
I see them all lying, knowing
The Others are waiting,
For all of a heap to come.

[Originally written, 2012]