Chaotic Technicality

Music I listened to while typing this poem out:

Without You – Oh Wonder

I didn’t want to push, rush the chaos                                                                     Oh good old chaos, destruction                                                                           reconstruction of this mind digging torture

You know, no one can drill in                                                                                 deep where there is only surface now                                                                       so get chipping away

Use your best tools and your latest techniques                                                 mine are so old and as concrete                                                                                     I don’t worship things anymore                                                                               but I like the idea that I’m already                                                                           creating a home for myself

After I leave this dreaded head space                                                                           I walk around so weak and I used to                                                                     appear quiet because I didn’t want                                                                     people to know about me

Now I trudge around dragging my demons                                                       along my skin for people to see but                                                                             I don’t bother with quick answers

Conversations, I love those. Intellectual                                                             spill your cries and what makes you cringe.

I live for what’s holding people back so                                                                     I can compare my pain I need out,                                                                             so maybe stop digging now and                                                                               just throw yourself ontop of me                                                                             while my body sleeps and                                                                                         soul drifts towards the bottom

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Ground Loins

Hear, the pitter patter of the river’s heart beat
Passerby throwing bones like sticks

Speak, the truth of the tongue being rolled off of the back of the nearest barking spine

Eat, the insides underlining the flesh of the person you used to be rotting beneath who you are now

Spew, the broken future’s carcass with shattered hopes and flowing spaces

Remember, the loopholes that you’ve been trying to jump through with nothing but nature’s eyes following you

Forget, the things that make you feel as though the wasted lands are all you are, washed up and dried to the loins

Time, alone forever travelling backwards in my head as more places seem to be too far to reach other than those inside

Hope, tainted, kissed with the poison of everything you were told was wrong, death created and unrighteous

I am not you, nor myself.

One day I identify as Transgender, the next I’m fluid. I’ve come to the realization that I may not always identify as one gender, both genders or even a gender and that it’s not anyone else’s business as to why I go by different pronouns so very often.

I used to believe that I had to experience dysphoria just to be considered transgender or even believe I was born in the wrong body. Everyone has their own struggles, everyone is different and not everyone may feel the same way as another transgender person does. I don’t believe that I was born in the wrong body. However, I just believe that I need to alter the body my soul has been entrapped into.

If I tell someone that today I’m male and tomorrow, I go by neutral pronouns or even female pronouns, that doesn’t mean I’m being fake or that I’m doing it for attention. Labels are what make me confused and without them maybe I’d feel a lot more comfortable with who I am.

I myself, am too fluid in every sense of the word to label myself all the time as a certain gender. Sometimes I’m comfortable with it, sometimes I’m not. That doesn’t mean that I deserve less respect just because someone doesn’t accept me or are confused.

I am just simply trying to live in this world and it’s already hard enough.

I am me, myself and I. I am everything and nothing. I am the grey before, the disaster during and the aftermath of every storm.

Coursing Palpitations

I’ve attempted to, even when I haven’t, to guilt trip you and                                                                                                   make you feel like you did me wrong, when really I let you go so soon                                                                                     and maybe I was just way too weak to stay, too weak to admit that I want you, mostly you

Although you’ve made it clear that the we that had transitioned                                                                                               to us has become no longer, I’m still trying to figure out if it was more than                                                                             just our seperate troubles, other factors besides the distance eating us

I sometimes wake up in a panic, struck over the heart, body hit                                                                                               with the storm that I had created for the both of us and                                                                                                             all I can seem to be able to do is wade it out with every few                                                                                                     fiber that is left circulating, coursing through my very body

Hurting, is what this may be, regret, guilt, not quite inlove-love, but                                                                                     love is still being felt up even after letting myself let you down and                                                                                           I can feel us slowly disappearing out of eachother’s lives and it’s killing me

Canvas Lashes

Song that I am listening to while writing the following poem: 

Let Me Go By KDrew, Rico & Miella

If only I could muster of the words to tell people exactly how I feel                                                                                                                                                                               As limited as my vocabulary is, my breath mutters more than any definition could scream                                                                                                                                       So the way my body moves is it’s own language undefined, unnoticed

Tear drops are the one thing I can rely on, just as pictures explain more than anything vocalized ever could                                                                                                       It’s taken me years to realize, appreciate such gestures as those subliminal images                                                                                                                                             Atleast for now, poetry radiates a bit of what can be seen if you allow your imagination to gather enough information from such things

For now, kisses are the one form of poetry I haven’t experienced enough                                                                                                                                                                 The way lips softly brush the canvas with light strokes and                                                                                                                                                                                       butterfly lashes fluttering quickly as fast as one blinks                                                                                                                                                                                           marking it’s territory by leaving trails of salty tear like substances

One day I’ll be able to find a new canvas to project such broad ideas onto                                                                                                                                                                 and jump back and look for a bird’s eye view as such an illusion may appear from afar

Soul Department

I constantly wear something, it doesn’t glow, but it doesn’t radiate light                                                                                         Call it a mask, but I’d rather refer to it as a piece of cloth that was ripped                                                                                  from my skin                                                                                                                                                                                   It appears smooth, when it is really scruffy on the outside

Underneath, crawling insecurities bleeding through, pushing onwards                                                                                       It’s been molded perfectly, as though someone knew what it would look like                                                                           before it was placed                                                                                                                                                                 ontop of my bones

Scraping is impossible, tearing it off is what people                                                                                                                 have been trying to do to reveal                                                                                                                                       something else

But what they want to see is what they already are seeing, they just don’t care to believe it                                                               So digging inside is what they attempt to do, clawing, scratching at the windows of a soulless body